Listening for the Soothing Sound
Sounds muted in life are raucous in memory. The
nun with the clapper
at St. Joe's prepared me
for the hut-horp of the Army
parade field. “Hippo-hoppo
who got the moppo?” sang the
drill sergeant.
“Your left . . . your left . . .
your left right left.” I
loved the echo.
Good sounds but, really,
not so soothing.
In New York waking at 3 am I
heard the radio static left over
from the Big Bang.
At Wallis Sands Beach the sound of
the waves crashing on the rocks
vetted my love for you.
When I heard that first baby’s
first laugh I realized I’d heard
the sound of home:
responsibility, commitment, the
death of what I thought
I really wanted—freedom.
Today, deaf, I don't even want that. It’s
not quiet in my head. The tinnitus mixes
up echoes, Big Bangs,
and laughing babies tinni-trip
into a barely discernible hiss.
Without the hearing aid
there is no difference in the sound of
deaf and death.
One night I hear it in memory, from
my boyhood on 19 Oak Street in
Keene, New Hampshire,
my mother working at her foot-operated
Singer brand sewing machine,
the soothing sound.
