A Collection of Impossibilities

I was born without a voice. Without a voice and without a history. No-one can tell me anything about the circumstances of my birth. There are names on my birth certificate, but they sound too convenient, too common. The people who abandoned me could be anyone. The doctor who presided over my birth is the same. So I can’t tell you that I came out of my mother’s womb silent, not for certain, though I like to imagine it that way: a pale infant, sucking in air and pushing it back out, without sound. What I can tell you is that my medical records, everything I have to my name, state I was born without vocal cords. There is nothing to create sound inside me. No instrument to strike, no fold to rake over and tear out cries of terror or sadness or surprise or happiness, nothing to power my laughter or my tears. I am only air. Only silence.