Sunday, February 6, 2011


Maryuh Lou was always doing something. Observing things. Touching them. Looking at people, just looking looking looking until her eyes went red.

Today was a day for listening. She heard everything. 

She listened to her footsteps on the bare floor. When she had no shoes on, the sound was slip slop, plod plod. When she had her slippers on, the sound was muffled, like clouds whispering to each other.

She heard faraway doors swing open, their hinges creaking like an old man’s joints. 

She listened to her baby brother sleeping, his breath softly whooshing in and out. And in. She listened to the way the way the air gushed down his airways and back out through his nostrils.

She listened to the sighs of the woman who lived upstairs, the woman who was waiting for death. 

She listened to the crickets cheeping outside, steadily, steadily, without a pause. She wondered when they went quiet. She wondered when they started. One never usually notices these things. 

She listened to the clock ticking away her life. She listened to the hands moving ahead without a pause and she could almost hear the sand dropping. 

Almost. But not quite. 

She listened to the sounds of dirty dishes being washed, plates and glasses clinking together. Spoons clattering down.

Maryuh Lou heard a lot of things. A lot of things indeed.

[The whisper of a soul as it leaves a body
The faint sound of stars singing softly to themselves
Children laughing
But then again
There are some things that just Are.]


  1. There's something so amazingly Kerouac about this post.