She could not hear her son greet her good morning or the floor boards, which usually annoyed her, creek beneath her feet.
Colours now made sound. The milky brightness outside was blinding upon the snow covered ground. Today she would not hear the crunch of snow beneath her feet or the robin red breast beat his beak upon the glass seat.
Touch now filled her fingertips with electronic heat, vibrations being the only sound allowed to speak.
Just for today she could imagine how bleak, it would be to never hear again a loved one speak.
To never hear laughter roar or music playing upon a dance floor, how quiet and lonely would that be?
The very thought frightening as can be.
When mute eventually returns to sound, she will gladly bottle up each sound.
For listening is so understated, often overlooked and rarely appreciated.
No longer would she complain of snoring, loud games or a crackling radio in the morning. She will cherish every sound she hears, for a world without voices would reduce her to fear.
For now she will just listen with her eyes.Hear with touch, which can be love in disguise.
She waits on Sense Street for sound to return, when it does a new flame of understanding will burn.
In future she will hear each bird sing, absorb every word as though it was the first time ever it did speak. She will hear every whisper, every sound beneath and beyond her feet.
The sound of silence is not always sweet.