and you grab a book and pull a chair up near the third-floor
bedroom window.
You think about that old rain CD and how many times
he heard the soft, muted thunder and crashing downpours
and whether or not it’s why he’s studying meteorology
at college. You think about how he once covered his ears
and how therapy once taught him to block out sounds by
focusing on another sense, and you wonder if this is partly
why he carries a book everywhere so he can watch the words
on the page. You think about how you once had to train him
not to maddeningly repeat back every word you said (Do you
want an ice cream cone? Do you want an ice cream cone?).
You think about how many times you tried (and often failed)
to follow the therapists’ directions to ignore him until he
said something different back to you something that didn’t
mimic what he’d just heard. And you think about how an
important part of his campus job as a newscast producer now
is to repeat things back to the director and camera operator.
You no longer get upset that he turns off the oven
timer before you even hear it, or wonder why he didn’t go to
that big party, and it no longer peeves you that he leaves his
cell phone on silent. It’s enough that he calls you on yours
(sound always on), and that the voice you hear is the same
one that charmed you the first time words formed instead of
the terrible sounds of his cries, and you remember how long
it took you to understand that the crying might have all been
about the noisy, noisy world, and that he too was craving the
sounds of silence.
END