It began with a question that turned eyes silver—if you could be any instrument, what would you be? A drum, I said, thinking it would be the surest way to be known. But there are other sounds—
I want to be the sound of the day beginning—a consortium of birds having conversations on what it means to be jewel toned—the percussion of wings flying in different directions.
I want to be the sound of a train wailing into the station, a call heard so far across town you know summer isn’t over.
More gently, I want to be the sound of distant bells you hear when the sun begins to dip, and Sunday turns blue.
If we were to ever go swimming, I’d like for you to know I enjoy the stillness of holding my breath and reaching the bottom floor, a daydream where you have the only ticket to attend.
And what if, for just one night, I could learn what it would be like to drop my human form and be the clinking heat in the pipes when we turn on the furnace for the first time in November.
I could be the muffled words heard through the walls—the symphony of a neighborhood under the spell of evening.
On your 31st birthday, you’ll go for a walk, and on the corner you’ll see the glow of an apartment and the hum of this day’s song begins. Why thank you, opening yourself up so very slightly to the truth—that there are cycles—and the way a note reverberates into another is evidence that god is indeed change.
I want to figure out if there’s a way for me to memorize joy—to practice it like sheet music, singing in the shower, believing in hopeful anticipation—like a religion—I want to be prepared to be all consumed, ready for a recital.