By Amanda Knox
My sister Deanna observes that Oma and I answer the phone with the same drawn-out and sing-song-y, “Hallooo!” We entertain ourselves in similar ways, dancing whether we have a partner or not, singing aloud whether we know the lyrics or not, sans embarrassment. We both read books voraciously, nurture children and animals compulsively, call people for no other reason than to say hello, or, in Oma’s words, “just checking to make sure that you’re still alive.” Both of us harbor deep, difficult-to-articulate hurt. Difficult to articulate because of how entrenched and visceral it feels, but also because the trauma is hard for many people to relate to. You know the uncomfortable pressure of witnessing or listening to another person’s suffering that leaves you feeling inadequate, hollow, defeated. It’s an isolating experience for everyone, teller and listener. All the more reason why it means so much to have someone you can call up who can comfortably listen. For me, that’s Oma.
“Hallooo, Amanda! You won’t believe what Ole found for me.”More ›