There is a cleaning agency,
that employs mostly the hearing-impaired
There is this on, Jorge…
who cleans the sixth floor, which I work on
There is this deafening silence about him
How he walks solidly –
Heavy across the floor to empty trash
There is he, pushing his new-found treasure of collected garbage
through hallways of well-traveled tiled floors.
The thuds of his footsteps, that he can only feel the vibration of,
But I hear his every movement –
and he not knowing the sheer joy of the slightest sounds
that escape his utter presence.
There are the scrapes and shallow hiss
that only an old dirty dust mop can make.
With its metal captor always managing to release a frequent sound
And there is Jorge’s futile mopping of imaginary spots,
I don’t know that our floors have ever had the insane
pleasure of being covered in soot,
or maybe dust, better yet dirt or mud
But there is me, with my complete ability to gather and decipher sound.
The difference between a bell and a telephone ring.
The difference between a car and a bus.
The difference between something being fried
and something heated to a full boil.
The difference between laughing and crying.
And I possess all the skills in the world to be able to tell
the difference of any given sound.
And there is me, looking at the cleaner of our sixth floor,
wondering what silence must look like
wondering what silence must feel like
wondering what silence must smell like
wondering what silence must taste like
and most of all wondering what silence must sound like.
How long would I be able to withstand it – endure it?
Would I go insane from a lack of noise?
Knowing all that I have heard in my lifetime
No audible sound whatsoever to be witnessed –
My ears, Jorge’s ears, seeking out sounds
in all their complete volume.
Arthur’s Note: Thank you for stopping by and giving this a read. I appreciate all suggestions, comments, and constructive feedback. Please stay safe and healthy as our world heals from this pandemic.
– Peace and Blessings – CV Davis –
© CV Davis – Author