My house is dark. Here, somewhere after three in the morning, the immediate space around me has been given over entirely to sound. Without the physical details offered by light, the constant whirring of an oscillating fan in my sunroom has become the glue holding together all the universe. At irregular intervals, a call for heat forces my boiler to whuff to flame, layering a low roar of constant urgency below the sound of the fan.
Random
sounds also populate the darkness.
Somewhere deep within its wooden framing, my house cracks its knuckles. Twice, as I listen more intently, something
inside the refrigerator ticks lightly against hard metal.
Even
my own body has become a vessel for errant noise. My internal plumbing murmurs as it pressurizes
and recharges empty chambers following a colonoscopy procedure.
As I
sit upright on my sofa, I swear I am hearing my own thoughts. They sound softer than the other sounds but
far more insistent.
Here
is a thought: It’s good to be alive and know my wife, my family, and my friends
are out there somewhere amid the sounds.
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