Sound

Every Sunday morning I wander out the front door of my home with a fragrant cup of storebrand espresso to sit in the porch swing. I’ve been told it creaks horribly, but I never notice. And the coffee? It tastes undeniably horrible, like dark brown dirt mixed with heavy cream, but it brings to life the beauty of the outside, allowing me to pay attention to other things...

Allowing me to pay attention to her. Her blonde hair sweeping in the wind. Flat shoes tapping on the ground as she races to her car, predictably at 8:45 AM each Sunday, heading to mass at the local church, where she will arrive five minutes late. I imagine the music playing on her radio is gospel or folk. I will never be close enough to hear it.

Every Sunday outside at the same time in a beautiful sundress. Today she wears my favorite one, yellow sunflowers and white lilies. An uncommon combination, but gorgeous against her olive skin. Sometimes she wears a cardigan, faux suede with fringe, Only when it’s cold, and it is rarely cold in this area of Georgia. I love the texture of that cardigan.

Imagining myself speaking to her gives me chills. She is lovely. Every movement perfectly aligned with the breeze outside. Different but familiar with each day that passes. She is the perfect song.

I want to reach out to her. I want her to see me, listen to me tell her how much happiness she has brought into my otherwise dull life, but I fear she will not be able to understand me, and the conversation will implode. So I sit in my chair, and watch her for those few minutes each Sunday.

I listen to her movement. Swishing sundress. Tapping toes. Flowing fringe. And it feels so good. Like a melody just waiting to erupt inside me. It makes me want to get up and dance.

But this Sunday, she has forgotten something. She turns to walk into her home, but notices me. Notices me watching her. She has only noticed once before, in passing, and simply drove away. But this is different, her neutral beauty turns into confusion, then anger. And she walks right across the street and over to me.

Her mouth is moving so fast I cannot make out many words. Creep. Watching. Stop. I have never felt this much fear. I try to talk to her. I sign quickly, I am sorry. She doesn’t understand. It is in that moment that everything changes. That she is no longer a reason to sit on the porch on Sunday; she is a reason to hide inside. The music is gone.

I stare into space for a little bit too long. She is infuriated. I imagine it is because I am not respecting her, even though that’s not the case. I sigh, lightly, and then reach out and grab her hand. She recoils.

I point to my ears. And I shake my head no. She understands now. She backs away, like deafness is something she can catch from me. But now she isn’t afraid of me, just pitying. Just sad for me. And the music is gone. The way she moved, seeing that freedom, that energy. It was brighter than anything I had witnessed before. A symphony.

She apologizes, quickly, and moves away. Then walks back across the street and gets into her car and drives to church. I don’t hear the sound of the tires or the radio or her mumbling on the phone to the person she is telling about this now. I hear nothing. No music. No sound.

I sit at my kitchen tables on Sunday’s now. I realized once, when I was young, that even when you can’t hear, the world around you is full of sound. But when the sound becomes aware of you... it changes. It becomes softer, sadder; it loses it’s brightness. And all I can think now, sitting inside, is that my music is gone.