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The faucet, however, does not drip

For some reason, today I am noticing sounds. The jingling of Cricket’s collar tags and the click of her claws against the pavement while we walked this morning surged to prominence. The usual background susurration of traffic moved out into the foreground, to say nothing of the grumble of the bulldozer waking by the side of the road and the weed-whacker that buzzed death to dandelions.

This afternoon, in addition to the ticking clock and the whirring fan, I hear the periodic click as the dowel of the fish banner Syd made in preschool raps the closet door behind me. Cricket flaps through the dog door downstairs, arrives under the desk to dig out her bed with a sound much like the swoosh of corduroy pants—and the word corduroy does not sound, to me, like it is spelled, which meant I made annoyed sounds and typed more emphatically than usual—a change in the percussiveness of the key reports—while I figured out how to spell the word correctly.

I’ve tracked the spatter of frying onions, the rumble of boiling soup, and the welcome thrust of the front door as Brent returned from errands.

Guess I don’t need the radio.

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jan_can_too
jan_can_too

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