I put the hearing aid in for the first time today. Fifty-five years old, and I finally admitted I couldn't hear the world anymore.
I was moving a piano out of Mrs. Kingston's living room. Her husband ran the mill until he passed.
The world snapped into focus like a radio finding the right station. I heard the floorboards creak under my boots. I heard the cat's bell from the kitchen.
A wristband from the Town & Country 5K was tangled under the sofa leg. My brother and I ran that race together. Before the fight. Before the silence.
Mrs. Kingston said, 'That song. My substitute teacher used to play it on the record player.' I heard it then—'Unchained Melody' coming from a radio in the next room.
I realized I'd been half-deaf to my brother for twelve years. Not just in my ears.
Tonight I drove home with the hearing aid still in. Everything was too loud. The refrigerator hum. The clock. The quiet where his voice should be.
Maybe tomorrow I call him. Maybe the door isn't as shut as I thought.