tried to argue with my father so many times. He was a difficult man to argue with. He believed in silence. It doesn’t make for rip-roaring, gut-busting, passionate debate, trying to argue with someone who believes in silence. I could shout my lungs hollow at him and he wouldn’t respond. He’d listen, with all appearance of attention, and when I was finished, he’d wait for a few moments and then turn back to his books. Dr. Feingold reminds me of him, just a little. In the velvety softness of her silence, in the pause after I finish speaking. When he did speak, it was in allegory and metaphor.
