Listening

And of course, it’s easier to listen, once the noise stops. Once the fridge stops humming and the washing machine stops whirring. When that song on the radio grows so maddening that you switch it off. Once the loudest voice in the group goes home, once the crying child has been taken to another room. When the leaf blower, the hedge trimmer, the idle motorbike - once they have all gone away.

That’s when slowly, it creeps back in. And you realise it’s not that bad, actually, it’s completely manageable when there’s no sound louder than the inside of your own head. Trees rustling, a football being kicked down the road. A distant car. Maybe a bird.

There, now. Not so bad to be alone. Without the other person talking and laughing and crashing around and running the tap and hopping in the shower and coming and going. And asking you questions, and not listening to the answers. 

You both stopped listening to the answers. 

Stopped listening to the breaths in-between words, the gestures in place of a retort. 

No, not so bad. The aching, yawning silence is not so loud. It slaps the sides of your head and screams in your ears, but it’s fine, you can cope with it. 

Can’t you? 

So you put the radio back on. You will the hedge trimmer back into existence. You put another wash load on, you run the tap and hop in the shower. You come and go, you rustle the trees and kick a football down the road. You meet up with loud friends and choose tables next to crying children, and order takeaway just to hear the idle motorbike. 

And you listen to the birds. And you wait for their voice to come home.