Monday, June 1, 2009

Dictaphones and thunder

I find Cliff’s Dictaphone, that he used to take notes with when estimating a new construction project.

My hands shake but I cannot resist the temptation to turn it on. There is some general background conversation – clearly it was in his Levi’s pocket and the record button was pressed inadvertently – I can make out his voice and strain my ears to catch something meaningful, to no avail.

It’s lovely to hear his voice.

Then a strange noise comes out of the tiny speaker.


Then I laugh.

It’s me snoring. He TOLD me that he had recorded me snoring, to prove that I did. I always maintained that I ONLY ever snored if I had a cold. Mind you … my snoring sounded soft compared to his, believe me.

I’d love to hear that noise again, next to me … even though it drove me to distraction before. It rarely affected me as I generally fell as asleep before he did.

The noise then makes me cry quiet tears. Because it is the sound of my oblivious, unknowing, safe sleep. Before he died. Before I became scared of thunder and lightening. Before I became scared of the wind at night. It is the sound of my loss.

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