Tinnitus
Her books line the shelves. The cat, bewildered, gives a mournful mew. I lift the lid on the box that holds her Pez dispenser collection and must look away when I see their tiny smiling faces. Last played the day she died, her flute collects dust in the attic—the whisper of her breath still trapped in the hollow of it.
I still hear that flute sometimes, awakened in the night by its astonishing trill. That once frightened me, but I’ve grown to like it. Tinnitus, my husband says, but I know better. I take comfort where I find it.
Photo Credit: Lloyd Lee
talk about the power of economy — this is gorgeous.
Captures so much love and sorrow.
This made me gasp. ‘the whisper of her breath’ still in the flute….the flute / tinnitus connection. thank you for sharing.
This is so beautiful. So few words that created such strong emotions.
Such a deep emotional dive in so few words. The sounds of our loved ones still “echo” long after they are gone. A wonderful work.
Such strong emotion touching me deeply, via such brevity, leaves me in amazement.
I mean… W O W