Well, to the mystics and warfare gamers out there, my channeling is totally different than yours. I am "calling up" the great days of Simon and Garfunkel music, when the world was groovy, most of the rockers of the time were stoned and/or high, mod clothing was all the rage, and the peace sign was everywhere.
Now that Grandpa Hoo and I have returned from returning TYE (The Youngest Musketeer formerly known as Princess Leia) to her parents and brothers, the condo greeted us with a resounding thud. Nothing. Zip. Zilch. Nada. Gone are the shrieks of joy, the giggles, the strong little voice announcing that Grandpa Hoo needed his coffee, or "That's not fair"! No more "ewws" elicited from TEM when he saw my asparagus omelet, or his delight when he would beat me at Connect Four, or his request to hear The Enormous Crocodile by Roald Dahl "one more time". No more boxes of berry-flavored Kix, or waffles with peanut butter on them, or Goldfish crackers. No more watching where you walk in case a toy is in an unexpected place.
Simon and Garfunkel wrote a song titled "The Sound of Silence" that keeps echoing in my head now that the condo is deafeningly quiet and Frances has come out of hiding. She is the only living creature in our household that is happy at the moment. While most of the lyrics of "The Sound of Silence" are brooding and darkish, the first stanza neatly sums up what I am feeling tonight.
Hello darkness, my old friend,
I've come to talk with you again,
Because a vision softly creeping,
Left its seeds while I was sleeping,
And the vision that was planted in my brain
Still remains
Within the sound of silence.
Yes, silence has a sound. Not one, necessarily of commission but, rather, one of omission. Silence almost has a roar to it, much like that emitted from the depths of a conch shell, or a dog whistle's pitch that only a dog can hear.
I know that tomorrow morning the sound of Grandpa Hoo's and my routine will return - the coffee maker's grinder, letting the microwave's end sound beep four times, the newspaper's pages turning, scolding the cat for howling, and letting the bar stools' feet clunk on the wooden floor. The dishes can clunk and the silverware tinkle - all before 7 a.m.
I'd rather have to be quiet until I hear the pitter-patter of feet smaller than mine. Instead the visions planted in my brain will enrich and fortify my memories.
Amazing Grace and Twinkle, Musketeers.
Ancora imparo
