The Sound I Need You to Hear

There’s a particular one that is

at the middle of sighs of
resignation and
huffs of indignation and
reluctant acceptance. Dad.

There is an acknowledgment of time.

It doesn’t belong to me.
Pay attention. It’s important. Now.

It might be contentment or pleasure.

How do I write a sound?

When the world seems to swirl around me and life is confusing, what is that sound? It’s the sound that brings
me back.
How do I write it? Be present. Dad. Help. There’s only so much time. I know. Give me a second.

It’s a feeling. I’m confused.

That sound has meaning, but which meaning? What meaning is in that sound?
Can you listen, dad?

You hear cars and people. Life goes by. You hear it. Listen,
I’m telling you something. Dad.

I don’t know but there is a sound. Just a little one. A sigh. A huff.
Air escaping the nose. It means something.
Dad, I’m telling you something. Dad.
The sound I avoid. Or the sound I lean into. I’m gonna miss it when it’s gone.
Dad.

That sound defines the present and threatens the future. It carries the past. It’s always there. Be there.

Huff. Hiss. Help. Hi.

What’s that sound?

What’s the sound, dad?

Coffee is made and keyboards are clicked. And nails clicked on the floor. The sound is there.
What’s the sound? Help. Dad, please, I am helpless.

When I grab my keys and coat and I walk? The turn of the knob as I walk out the door. That sound, that huff
asks… “Where are you going?”

“I’ll be right back.”

I will. But how much time is there?

I make dinner and that sound has a curiosity. A need. For me? No. For the food I’m making. But that’s also for
me.

Dad… please don’t forget. You won’t.

I am present. I am here. I am listening. I am yours.