a brief murmuration

bill bruce

Mornings are always the same because no two are ever alike. Not even close. Given that waking thought, voila: your eyes open with the hushed anticipation of a stage curtain.

The orchestra tunes: a dusty ceiling fan takes its turns swaying and wobbling. The orchestra settles: ivory sheers breathe in and out on either side of the open window. The orchestra readies, poised: long shadows reach across the bedroom and climb the far wall where Lebron drives to the basket. Tap, tap, tap; on cue, all of life slowly rotates toward the sun.

You look out through the window beside your bed. A ladybug stubbornly crawls across the outside of the glass. Large kettledrums boom in perfect sync with each tiny step. You feel it so deeply it’s as if it’s your skin that’s stretched across the copper bowls. Your body vibrates. You smile. This never gets old.

The ladybug takes off. A feverish piccolo, tethered like an invisible cape to its oscillating wings, rises and falls as the little red dot slowly disappears into a just washed and cleaned sky after southern clouds thundered in last night, emptied themselves, and moved on.

Now, water drips from the leaky, clogged gutter and hits the wood sill with vibrant, splashy cymbal crashes in rhythmic succession. Your edges lose shape and blur just like a crash cymbal. So cool, you think. So cool.

You could lie here all day and just look and listen and feel excited, hopeful, and happy.

A bow draws evenly across a cello as the door opens slowly. The cello and the door stop at the same time. Your mom peeks in, sees that you’re awake. A soft pizzicato marks each step as she comes to the foot of the bed.

Her melody, her theme, penetrates your entire being. It changes, depending on her mood, but you soak up those notes like rain in a parched field. Today she sounds warm and optimistic, her philharmonic gradually rising like the sun outside your window.

Hey sweetie, how’d you sleep? she signs.

The music accompanies her hands, her every gesture, as if she’s politely inviting the notes to follow and not commanding them.

She leans her head to the side; her wheat hair falls across the valley of her cheek. Her green eyes sparkle. You sit up and smile at your mom in a way that makes her wonder what you see in her that she can’t see in herself.

Great, you sign. And I just saw a ladybug. So cool.

That’s nice, she signs, but doesn’t seem to fully share your excitement. You have a big day today.

You don’t see what she signs. Once again, you’re looking at her mouth, not her hands. She moves her lips when signing; they are vibrant, full of expression and emotion. They rise and fall, creating shapes that don’t have metaphors. It’s hard to look away.

In the past, she told you it’s just habit. Just verbalizing, she said. Her mouth saying the same thing as her hands. She apologized, said she knows it’s distracting and will try to stop. You quickly signed no, don’t. You like it. Because what mirrors her mouth, the shape of her lips, their rise and fall, are two sopranos. One male, the other female. Always a duet. Beautiful voices soaring in unison above the philharmonic. She’s both Pavarotti and Sutherland—expression and emotion in high C.

Today is no different. You can’t take your eyes off of her. You could listen to her all day. Though what she says isn’t always something you want to hear.

You have an appointment with Dr. Jacobs today, she signs.

That you see. I don’t want to go.

We’ve talked about this.

You talked about this.

He can help you, she signs.

I don’t need help. I’m fine.

I know you’re scared, but this is for the best.

Nothing’s wrong with me, you sign.

She begins to sign faster, which you know is a sign she’s getting frustrated. I’m not saying there is. I want to help you. I love you, and I want you to have a better life.

It’s good the way it is.

Trust me, she signs. You’ll be happier.

Please don’t make me.

Honey, I know what’s best for you.

How? But before she can respond you close your eyes, which means this conversation is over. She tugs at your big toe. You squeeze your eyes tighter. Your lips pucker, lose color. Your pulse throbs: boom, boom, boom.

You don’t hear her leave. Because without sight, there is no sound. There is silence, a quiet emptiness that extends forever. One that you alone control.

Truth be told, you were born tuned to a different station. You just don’t know it. Neither does anyone else. (How could they? Everyone just thinks you’re deaf, as simple as that.) You never talk about it. (Why would you? You just think it’s life, as natural as breathing.)

Since you took your first breath, music is attached, inextricably linked, to everything you see. The same way, you guess, scent is attached, inextricably linked, to everything that blooms. It’s just the way it is. Still, even after more than fifty-five-and-a-half million breaths you think, so cool. So cool.

A grey squirrel chases two others in the large maple rising outside of the kitchen window. Brass horns race up and down with them. Strings bend on bowing branches and instantly snap back in rhythm. Then you remember…life is in stereo. You close your right eye and the right channel silences. You alternate with your left, back and forth: slower, faster, slower. The balance shifts: side-to-side, right-to-left, splitting the world in half and back again. You could do this all day.

Years from now, you’ll sit at a different little table, closing your left eye and then your right, trying to recapture what it was like; wondering if it was ever more than a game. You’ll ask yourself, was it a way to appreciate what you had? Was it about asserting some semblance of power and control? Was it a way to recognize and understand different perspectives? But in the end, you’ll realize those questions are not the questions little boys ask. Back then, those questions were still single cell organisms that had yet to divide, multiply and grow. Back then, it was about something much deeper.

In a flash, the squirrels leap from a thin branch and soar in three part harmony. All forty pounds of you bounces, both eyes wide open and smiling. Here and now there are no cracks, no gaps, nothing missing. Here and now you are whole, in perfect balance. Here and now both eyes are wide open and smiling.

Your mom watches you. She cranes her neck to look where you are looking, wondering what could possibly be so mesmerizing. She sees a couple of squirrels in a tree, shrugs, turns back to an empty mixing bowl on the counter. It must be Tuesday.

She opens the fridge, grabs the milk and butter, cracks the eggs, beats the mixture, retrieves the pan and spatula, starts the flame, pours the batter, flips the pancakes, doing so many things at once, in such perfect rhythm—she’s a polyphony. She’s a symphony. She’s harmony. It never fails; she might as well have a halo, you’re in awe.

You sit at the table for two and swing your legs back and forth like pendulums. She puts a bowl of raspberries on the table and smiles—hoping to get one back. You don’t disappoint her.

You focus on a single raspberry you turn in your fingers. It’s quiet. But you know what it’s capable of. Much like a cymbal, it’s nothing without a little momentum and blunt force. Your legs slow and then sit still. You glance at your mom. Her hair was shorter then.

Two years ago, when you were four-and-a-half, there was a bowl like this on the table. While your mom went to the bathroom you picked a raspberry, just like the one you hold now. You sensed there was something inside that was confined, imprisoned. So you put the ripe little berry on the table and smacked it with the palm of your hand; your mind exploded. The sound rode like a rogue wave up your arm and crashed in a huge crescendo. It was magnificent, as if ten orchestras hit the same climactic note at once. So, of course, you did it again. And again and again and again. The harder you smacked, the more magnificent the sound. Then you started doing multiples: two, three, five. So cool, you thought. So cool.

You looked up and saw your mom, her hand covering a gaping mouth. A discordant tremolo of building and multiplying violins playing along. But she wasn’t looking at you. She was looking at the remains of three dozen raspberries splattered on the table and all over you. After a long moment, one in which it looked like her expression was changing channels—shock, anger, frustration, worry, sadness, concern—she finally looked at you, still on concern.

Why? she signed.

Didn’t you hear? You smiled.

What?

That sound.

Daniel.

Wasn’t it amazing?

Sweetie…

Her arms fell limp at her sides. She knew you couldn’t possibly mean that. It just wasn’t possible. Then the channels flicked backwards: concern to sad and finally, landing on a new one—pity. The initial joy drained from your face. She forced a smile and signed, Let’s make jam.

Today, you don’t want her to look at you like you’re broken so you just pop the raspberry into your mouth. And even though you can still hear the crescendo, it feels very far away.

She slides a heaping stack of pancakes in front of you. A long sustaining note holds till you look up and sign, Thanks Mom.

You’re welcome, sweetie.

You watch her clean the kitchen. The music flows and transitions with such ease and fluidity, so completely in sync with each and every movement, it’s hard to tell what’s following what. You may only be slightly taller than the kitchen counter, but you recognize there are life lessons here: the mundane should never be boring, what you decide to focus on determines your happiness, all of life exists in a single moment.

You will return to these simple truths again and again until, one day, you won’t remember where you left them.

She fills your favorite James Harden glass with milk and tells you, Eat before it gets cold.

She found the glass at a tag sale. Why only fifty cents? you asked her. Probably because he’s wearing an Oklahoma City Thunder uniform and not the Houston Rockets, she said. When you asked why would anyone trade James Harden, your mom said, like most things, there are two sides. And so you looked it up. The Thunder said it was a good opportunity, in the best interests of James Harden, and were sorry to see him go. Harden said he wanted to stay but communication broke down and, in the end, it was a business decision so his interests, or what was best for him, had nothing to do with it. Given how he dominates the league, you’re pretty sure OKC regrets their decision. But, like so many things, there’s no going back.

Your mom sits with you at the table; she doesn’t like you to ever eat alone. But you don’t eat. Not right away. You wait. Because while you’re always surprised by the music that accompanies her, you quietly ache for the sopranos. Cold pancakes are worth it. So you wait. Finally, she looks across the table and...cue the sopranos.

What’s the big idea, she signs. Don’t like my cooking?

Your face lights up. You feel the electricity, the pull, between the two voices. The way they weave in and around each other and become one. They’re perfect together. They belong together.

You cut into your pancakes; she looks at her phone. Your head sways gently to the music that flows from her. These are by far the best moments of the day. When it’s just the two of you.

He doesn’t ever visit. You don’t even remember him. Maybe that’s why you never missed not having a dad. Who, by the way, is also very far away. You last heard from him on your fifth birthday. It was a Snoopy card with five New Zealand dollars tucked inside. Now, anytime your mom goes on a date you wonder if she’s trying to fill that role. But you don’t want a new dad. She’s the best dad you could ever want.

Last summer, she organized a basketball league for deaf kids. She even coached. Which isn’t necessarily dad stuff, but all the other coaches were men and a lot less patient. There were times you didn’t catch the ball because you didn’t want to interrupt the melody soaring along with it. She didn’t know that, of course. Still, she didn’t get upset. She was encouraging. The other kids weren’t as kind. But you’d just smile as they shook their heads in disgust because the chords that would repeat on their heads moving back and forth was hilarious. Although, it was all high-fives once you realized how amazing the music sounded when the ball hit nothing but net. Suddenly, you were the star, and your mom was there, like always, with a fist bump and a soft kiss.

You shovel in a mouthful of pancake. She puts her phone down, watching you more closely than usual. Something is off. Her melody is repeating, unable to make a smooth transition. She’s conflicted, stuck on the bridge. You put the fork down.

What’s wrong? you sign.

Nothing sweetie. Eat your breakfast.

She spins her phone in circles on the table. You wait till she looks up.

What’s a procedure? you ask.

She looks at you for a long moment; her eyes get glassy. Like an operation, she answers. But less serious.

So today is a procedure and not an appointment?

It’s both, but yes.

I like the way I am.

She sits up. It’s not about that, she signs, regaining herself; her melody continues, strong again.

Don’t you?

Of course I do. Haven’t we been over this already? It’s about what’s best—

You look down, stare at James Harden smiling at you in his OKC Thunder uniform. She reaches across the table and gently taps your hand with her index finger. You look up.

It’s about what’s best for you.

I don’t want it.

You will be happier after, I promise.

You look back at James Harden and push the glass toward your mom. Milk spills over the edge and onto the table. I don’t like this glass anymore, you sign.

You’re in the backseat of Mrs. Grimaldi’s Toyota. She lets your mom borrow it so you don’t have to take three different buses to Dr. Jacobs’ uptown office. Still, you wish her car didn’t smell like wet dog and cigarettes.

You pass that corner. You think of it as that corner because that’s how your mom refers to it. Even today in the rearview mirror her eyes say it too: Promise you’ll never do anything like you did at that corner ever again.

It was a summer evening; you got ice cream at Baskin Robbins on Jenkins Road, near the CVS and Clean Queen. The air was hot and humid. You let go of your mom’s hand so you could switch hands to lick the chocolate drips from your palm and wrist. Then you looked up; your mouth dropped open. What is that? Is it real? How does that happen? While more and more questions broke the levee and flooded your mind, the ice cream cone fell headfirst onto the cement.

You’d learn in the newspaper the next day that it was a murmuration of more than five-thousand starlings. You think, Murmuration, that’s a good word for it.

They swirled and turned, rose and dove like one epic pixilated wave. And yet they were tied to one of the most beautiful pieces of music you ever heard. Though instead of wondering if the music was following the birds or the other way around, you understood they were happening at the same time; they were of one mind, united, in perfect harmony. It was hypnotic. Spellbinding. You felt connected. Invited.

Then, in an instant, they climbed and turned inward, creating a six-and-a-half story question mark. As if to sign, Are you coming?

Your arms opened like wings. You followed them. You couldn’t look away.

You also couldn’t hear the horns, or tire squeals, or your mother’s scream. Only after she wrapped you in her arms, holding you so tight you could barely breathe, did you realize you were in the middle of Jenkins Road. Headlights skewed and static. Car doors opening. Judgmental heads shaking. Still, you couldn’t take your eyes off the majestic display in the sky. Because at that moment, something in you fell into place, like tumblers lining up inside a lock.

Finally, you were able to stop your mom from kissing your face and smearing tears and snot all over your neck. You looked at her and signed, Did you see? Did you hear? That music?

That was the second time she looked at you like you were broken. And so now every time you pass that corner on Jenkins Road she looks at you, and her eyes seem to make a promise that she will never, ever let that happen again.

Three days later, you began visiting Dr. Jacobs’ office.

On a winter afternoon, a few years from now, you’ll recognize the murmuration music as Beethoven’s 3rd Symphony, specifically the Eroica. You’ll learn Beethoven composed this piece after he was mostly deaf.

You’ll wonder if you and Beethoven were both tuned to the same frequency. You’ll wonder if all the deaf, or mostly deaf, are set to that channel. If so, you’ll wonder if maybe some are able to write down what they hear, share it, take credit for it. While the rest, like you, are simply left to wonder.

Today, you pull into Dr. Jacobs’ parking lot. The sun sits high, straight overhead, like a pin in a map.

The last thing you remember is laying on the table, the smell of antiseptic, a nurse shining a bright light in your eyes, your mom leaning over and kissing you on the forehead. But the absolute last thing you remember are the notes that you’ll one day discover come from Beethoven’s 5th: dah, dah, dah, duh. On that fourth and final note, a tear falls from your mom, hits your lips, and that’s it.

When you wake up, the world is different. Something is missing. Something critical. Like someone made a pie and forgot the sugar. It’s not a small thing—it’s everything. Because without it, it’s not pie. Just something bitter that resembles something sweet.

Your mom leans toward you from the foot of the bed, eager, like you’re a Christmas present about to be opened.

Dr. Jacobs carefully sits you upright. While he picks at something on the side of your head, you’re forced to focus on his earhole and the unattended dark hairs standing straight up like wild grasses at the beach. He unwraps the tight bandage secured around your head and ears. A repeating stain of yellow and brownish-red grows on the layers of unraveling white gauze. After pulling what feels like a drain plug out of each ear, he joins your mom looking, like two people who share a secret no one’s let you in on.

These are your first sounds: outside—police sirens and a repetitive fire engine airhorn, a jackhammer and construction crew; inside—bed pans fall and clatter on the tile floor, two people yell in Spanish, a door slams, another voice curses in English, squeaky soles on the polished floor, a voice garbled over a broken intercom. Your head snaps back and forth from the third-floor window to the hallway. Your heart beats an erratic rhythm. Your eyes well.

Your mom leans in, softly touches your shoulder. She smiles, her hands clasp over her chest. She turns her head slightly and speaks to Dr. Jacobs while keeping her eyes on you. But there is no philharmonic, no music. Just something high-pitched and nasally.

Tears roll down your cheeks.

Your mom’s eyes grow wider, they don’t blink. Her mouth hangs open, both hands fly up and cover it, fingers trembling; then a quiet release—a joyful little squeal. Dr. Jacobs puts his arm around her looking very proud of himself. Your mom keeps her eyes on you but hugs Dr. Jacobs. She signs to you, but you only hear her high-pitched, nasally voice. No sopranos. No duet. No soaring voices in high C. Pavarotti and Sutherland are nowhere to be heard. The electricity is gone. The pull is gone. Everything is gone. Everything.

Oh sweetie, she signs. You can hear. You look so happy. I told you. Isn’t it wonderful? You can hear!

But you don’t register any of it. You are looking at her mouth, the shape of her lips, their rise and fall. The tears come faster.

She kisses you ten times all over your face and leaves with Dr. Jacobs.

The nurse comes in to take your temperature. She smells like soap and peppermint. She holds your wrist. You feel her eyes on you. She senses something no one else saw, or didn’t want to see. She angles her gaze, dipping her head so you have no choice but to look into her eyes. You just want silence; the quiet emptiness that extends forever. You close your eyes tight, then tighter. But silence doesn’t come. That’s gone too. She finally lifts your chin and steps back and signs in a very tender way.

Soon, you will learn to understand spoken words, sounds of every kind: happiness, laughter. There is a whole world out there waiting for you to discover and connect with. She pauses, smiling with the glow of a saint, albeit a saint trying to sell you something. Doesn’t that make you happy?

If you were older, you’d tell her she has no idea what you’ve lost, what’s been taken. You’d say this is so utterly devastating you’re having a hard time breathing. But you’re only six-and-a-half and you’re in shock. So without looking at her, you sign, No.

She waits patiently till you look up.

It will, she signs. Believe me, it will.

You wonder why people who can hear never listen.

And then you hear the first breath of sadness to ever leave your body. It won’t be the last. But that will come later. For now, there are only tears. Because you know all of life exists in this single moment.