Remembering Sound

Every day, every week, there is always a loud cracking noise above my bed. It seems to be coming from the high corner of my bedroom, somewhere near where the wire from the upstairs phone and the duct tape I stole from my grandpa merge into the wall. Mother said it is like that because the unprotected lamp melted the plastic, copper, and tape together. I doubt it, and argue. I do not like arguing. The sound the tape makes always reminds me of these arguments. When I finally manage to sleep, I see these arguments again in my dreams.

      I do not always remember my dreams afterwards. But sometimes I do. These dreams make Mother seem like a giant, and her hair seems to streak out around her like fire. Her voice is great, loud, and rolling with heat. It scorches me. When I am there, I do not remember that mother is actually only one centimetre taller then me. I do not remember that Mothers hair is short, and curly. I do not remember that her voice is calm, and soothing. I only remember the Mother in my dreams. I named her Aunty Mother.

Once I told mother about Aunty Mother. She told me it was ridiculous, and asked me if I needed to go back to the hospital, and went back to chopping the vegetables. The knife against the cutting board always sounds like that cracking noise. The one I hear every night. Now when mother is cutting vegetables, I hear Aunty Mother talking over her. She makes mother into an angry person.

    I used to think that Mother could never hurt me. But that is not true. Aunty Mother can hurt me. And sometimes, when Father has come home, and Mother is chopping vegetables for his second eleven hour shift of the day, Mother becomes Aunty Mother, and I become the boy in the dream.