Poems From The Kitchen Table

A childhood story about silence, mystery, and the first time I found my voice on paper.

This story was written as part of a creative writing assignment: “write a story that takes place entirely in a car.” What began as a childhood memory turned into something much more meaningful—a quiet moment that shaped how I connect with the world. It was the first time I remember feeling truly unheard, and also the first time I discovered the comfort of a pen and paper.

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STORY:

I was about six years old when my parents took us to the family ranch for a summer vacation. The drive from the city took nine long hours.

On the way back home, we usually woke around 4:00 AM. By 5:00, the car was packed and humming down the road. My little sister and I would curl up in the back seat, no seat belts—of course—and fall back asleep.

My mother drove a white 1973 Chevrolet Nova with red interior. She loved driving; it reminded her of her younger years, when she raced fast cars and lived for the thrill. My father was always content in the passenger seat—being co-pilot meant he could sleep.

A few hours into the trip, my sister Keylla and I woke up. She started chatting with my mom, and I tried to jump into the conversation. But something was off.

I couldn’t speak.
My voice was gone—completely gone.

I shook my dad awake, wide-eyed with fear. I thought for sure my mom wouldn’t believe me. But to my surprise, neither did he. They both thought I was joking.

But I wasn’t.

I tried again and again to explain. My gestures, my urgency, my eyes—none of it was enough. I felt helpless. Crying wasn’t really my way of reacting, so I turned to signs, movements, anything I could think of. Nothing worked.

I took a deep breath. Tried to calm the panic.
Still nothing.
I opened my mouth to scream—
but not a sound came out.

The pounding of my heart filled my ears. My face turned pale. That’s when my parents finally noticed, and pulled the car to the side of the road.

They looked at each other. Nervous. Confused.
My mom pressed her hand to my forehead and felt the fever.
“Nothing alarming,” she said.
“You’ll get your voice back soon.”

She rummaged through her purse, found a pen and a small notepad, and handed them to me.
“If something doesn’t feel right,” she said gently,
“write it down and let me know.”

We stopped for lunch and gas soon after. I remember the quiet. I think my parents were still unsure whether to believe me. At the restaurant, we picked up more paper. Back in the car, I spent the rest of the day playing writing games with my sister and dad, while my mom drove us home.

Until this day,
we still don’t know what happened to my voice.

That afternoon, someone brought up an old folktale—something whispered to children in Venezuela:
If a child plays with a cienpiés—a centipede—
or kills one,
they will lose their voice.

I still wonder if my parents meant it,
or if it was just for entertainment.
But that whisper lived quietly in the background of that drive home.
And from that day on,
I began to write every time I felt unheard.

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