poem written for and submitted to Litezine for its current contest themed "Noise."
The refrigerator starts up sometime after midnight, offering the same worn sermon it has preached for twelve years. Not eloquent. Just faithful. The floorboard outside the hallway has an opinion about everyone sharing it whenever someone walks by. Above the stove, the clock ticks steadily on, faithful to its task whether the day deserves recording or not. I used to think noise belonged to machines. Then I noticed my father clearing his throat before speaking; my grandmother humming over a sink full of dishes; the mattress spring giving its small reply whenever my husband turned a page long after midnight. Some sounds live with us so long we stop hearing them arrive. Then one day they are gone, and their absence enters the room making far more noise. Now, whenever I stand in the kitchen, I hear the refrigerator continuing its faithful monologue. The floorboards still offer their opinions. The clock refuses to miss a beat. And beneath them all, another frequency~ the lost sounds still reverberating inside the ordinary ones. The house has become an archive of echoes. Nothing is silent. Not even silence.
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