The sound of
my childhood
was my siblings’ squeals,
frantic feet pounding up
the basement stairs after I turned off
the light. Cacophony of fright, or even
anger, for enveloping them in the womb of the
dark, domain of the dreaded “heatermonster.”
A legendary figure,
never identified by sight,
but known—admittedly imprecisely,
due to the squealing—by his dull roar.
In fact, I’d say, even safe on the first floor,
you
can
still
hear
his
moans.
If you ask me, the AC here
isn’t nearly loud enough.
Where’s the incessant hum?
Nothing swallows the sound
when I startle myself with the
clank of the pots in the cupboard,
despite my careful fingers.
No one’s dueling with soundtracks
in the kitchen, writing the next hit
country-techno-musical mashup.
If I don’t bury my face in a pillow,
someone might actually be able
to hear me crying.
There are gaping holes
between my mom and I
when I call her on the phone.
If we were honest, and we never are,
I’d say they’ve always been there.
It’s just harder to hide the fissures
with no one else to lay claim
to her attention.
But she is smart enough to know
there are missing hours in my stories,
gulfs that went unnoticed
all the years spent suffocating
under her roof.
So when I say I miss them
and my voice sounds honest,
it surprises me, even though
I know I do.
I crave the noise.
It’s just—
even with the shrieking,
I’m running out of tales
to fill the gaps
and too afraid to find out
what would happen if they
finally heard me.
