Never the sound of SILENCE.
All things phlegm. It’s this assiduous aural attack that begins and ends my days and fills every moment in between. From snorting, hacking, spitting and nose blowing, these cringe-worthy noises have me yearning to crawl within myself to find a safe place. I didn’t know it was possible for the body to produce mucus 365-24/7. Moments punctuated with the loud movement of bodily slime.
Incoherent grunts at 5am meant to be the words, “Good Morning.”
The chomping of horse teeth on soft food draws my shoulders up into my ears.
Milk slurped from a spoon that is first tapped on the side of a glass bowl rivals Robert’s eating ritual.
That damn razor, replaced now for the third time, buzzing over the non-existent hair on his cheeks.
Punching fist to palm eight times. It’s always eight times. He must count them because it’s always eight. Eight is a disturbing number.
Right foot, just the toe part, slapping the hardwood floor like a circus donkey counting for the crowd. Applaud one and all.
Shuffling into slippers; shuffling across the room. Shuffle. Shuffle. Shuffle.
Random tongue clicking, echoing.
Finger snapping when I don’t turn the channel quickly enough away from the Alex Trebek commercials or to the reruns of The Andy Griffith Show.
Me yelling: to get his attention, break into his obsessive train of thought or out of frustration and anger.
Stunning SILENCE from his bedroom at a rare 8:30am sleep-in that makes me afraid he died during the night.
