Do you hear what I hear?

It's about seven-thirty. I'm mostly awake, still getting there. I can hear my wife breathing. I can actually hear her drawing a breath in, letting it out, soft and rhythmic, peaceful in her sleep. I hear the A/C in the window. Its guttural hum is a constant in the background but sometimes the sound comes forward to have its own say. I can hear the dog begin to yip. She's awake and ready to be let out of her pen. The children are awake, too. I can hear them talking, maybe laughing. It's another thirty minutes before anyone should be out of bed. Oh, well.

The sounds of the day gather, like factory workers lining up before the start of their shift. The noise grumbles and has its coffee then gets down to the hard work of filling our house. The toilet flushes and water runs. Hard heels drum across the hardwood floor. I go down the creaking, squeaking staircase and start the coffee-maker making its own hissing speech.

Our home is not quiet. The hard-surfaced acoustics make that nearly impossible. Besides, kids are never quiet and we have four. They shout when they mean to speak and speak when they mean to whisper and they whisper when they don't mean to talk at all. They fill their space completely with a symphony of sounds, big and little, that go on continuously throughout the day. They live out loud.

This is how it is supposed to be, I think. Life is noisy. It is a sensory experience meant to fill us completely. The music we hear on the radio or in a concert hall is only a pale imitation of the harmony we hear all day, every day. It is like a painter trying to capture what he sees with a handful of man-made colors and a flat canvas. Real music really moves you. When I hear my son cry out in fear, I run. My heart pounds and I race to the rescue. No song can do that. It is the sound of his peril that drives me. It doesn't matter what the cause is or whether he's really in danger.

For me, sound is like a prophet, testifying to the unseen. It speaks of what has been, what is, and what will be soon. Sometimes I can hear the beginnings of disaster while it is still in the planning stage and I can intercede. Sometimes I don't hear until it is too late and the atonal chimes of breaking glass are my only warning. Even so, my life is filled with the soundtrack of reality, the music of children, the bedlam of domestic life. And I wouldn't have it any other way. I, like most parents, am uneasy to get what I ask for. The most frightening sound of all is silence.