A series of rapid pops penetrated the air as I dressed for bed last evening. I stood in the dark waiting for the inevitable siren. None came. I glanced at my phone, wondering if I should call 911. Then I shrugged and let it pass, one of a hundred noises of night-time in the city.
Lying on the bed a few minutes later, I cradled the phone against my ear. The warm cadences of a friend’s voice flowed through me, a vibrant melody of unexpected nourishment. Still later, as I sank into sleep, thunder rolled through the dark on the heels of each bright flash. The patter of rain on my roof entwined with the perpetual symphony of my damaged brain. I dreamed of music, the clattering of pebbles on a window, the rise and fall of waves against the shore.
Now only the everlasting chorus in my head and the occasional rumble of a car on the wet pavement interrupts the silence of my morning. My stumbling steps echo in the empty rooms. I hover in the space once occupied by a dining table; I listen. I hear nothing. Then I continue into the kitchen where a solitary mug awaits.
It’s the twenty-second day of the forty-sixth month of My Year Without Complaining. Life continues.
