SENSES: Sound 03.31.2013

The last conversation I ever had with my grandmother was about cherries. “I don’t know if I’d like those”, she responded in a weakly engaged voice. It wasn’t that she had never eaten cherries; it was that she couldn’t remember much at all by that point. The Alzheimer’s and cancer had run rampant, leaving her disoriented in both mind and body.

It was a warm summer evening, and as we sat on her porch, she slid her slippers across the carpet with great, friction-y swooshes. One foot, then the other. One foot, then the other. It was almost hypnotizing.

The world outside was chatty, as it is on warm summer nights in rural Southern Vermont. Crickets, woodpeckers, a distant lawn mower. Most of all, I loved listening to the chickadees sing.

chickadee-dee-dee
chickadee-dee-dee

When she closed her eyes and fell asleep, slumped in her chair, her breath became deep and rumbling. I swished the dregs of my iced tea around its glass and smiled at her truly house-shaking and robust snores. This woman, who in sickness and health, always roared with laughter that was far too large for her tiny body.

 I watched her until the sun went down, until the woodpeckers stopped pecking, until the lawn mower stopped mowing.

Then, until the chickadees stop singing.