‘While there is still time for words,” — let’s talk. I don’t recall who said these words, only that they resonate. Words are risky things, after all. Troublemakers.

In company, we often censor our words to talk only about safe things, definitely not politics. No politics at the table. No politics at the party. No politics among friends and relatives who disagree.

Decades ago, during the Vietnam War, my husband recalled his mother’s strict command of “no politics at the table.” After praising her scalloped potatoes there was often a heavy silence as people searched for safe conversation. While at my family table, politics began straight off as the rye bread was dunked in tomato juice. It wasn’t a pro/con war debate. It was a generational conflict about military service. My father, who had enlisted in World War II, believed in the democratic equity of service. My brother had resisted the draft, refusing to take part in an “unjust” war.

These were bitter disagreements, which we all survived if at times a bit battered. It got me wondering why we’ve settled for relationships that require this silence now. I understand that it’s often wise to establish some common ground before tackling conflicting views especially as extremist positions have become more vocal and the sides more intractable. But if we don’t dare to disagree, do we become less thoughtful, more prone to cynicism and despair?

My neighbor died recently. He was a very ill man, so not a surprise. The surprise was seeing him outside day after day working on his roof and yet knowing that he was that sick.

“Looks great,” I’d call to him, seeing him up on his ladder.

“I’m trying,” he’d say.

We were neighbors, but not friends. He was an avowed Trump supporter. We didn’t talk politics. We weren’t — either of us — without our reasons and explanations.

“Don’t talk politics.” We say that. Make that deal. One friend refuses to talk politics with her brother, quickly changing the topic whenever the subject pops up. Another, it’s her beloved nephew, thereby avoiding hurt feelings and the harsh differences in values that threaten cohesion. I brought my neighbor food when he was back from the hospital, but never mentioned the flag on his boat — a MAGA signal. Why didn’t we talk about that? Did I believe that talk would do no good? Probably. Did I feel that the stakes are too high? Maybe. The potential for cruelty, too great? Yes. Is silence a new kind of insurance policy to protect the slim ties of community?

For other people, silence is never an option. Denial is not an option. Several of my Black friends point out that they don’t have that luxury. That attitudes and allegiance to racist ideas are more than politics. Impossible to avoid in the way of other hot button topics. If you feel in your bones the insult of bigotry, it’s not a topic among topics. It’s life.

At a friend’s family reunion recently, her usually easy-going adult son screamed at his uncle, who had said something hateful and down-right “trumpy.” “I lost it,” her son said, and later apologized to his uncle. But I thought, he didn’t lose it, he recovered it — a voice missing from the family, the unspoken words that have to be said.

I could go on: the examples. The heart-felt words, still possible bridges across the widening gulf between us. I think of outrage at injustice and inequality as an asset that deserves its hearing. Spoken not as ridicule or derision, but as humanity’s cause, which is, I know, asking a lot of us, as anger and upset have their ways of spiraling out of control. I’m not an optimist or naïve, certainly not about my own civility or about positive outcomes with those who hold extremist views. But my neighbor was a proud grandfather who loved hosting outdoor events. “Come over,” he’d say.

“Managed conflict,” I heard someone say, suggesting an artful dialogue. Something to learn, something to risk.

So, will we do that, in this new year — manage conflict with our neighbors, colleagues and families while there is still time for words?

Ruth Charney lives in Greenfield.

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