Sound

by Veeda Khan

i.

Anna is not asleep yet. Anna is not asleep, but she is lying in her bed, the centered bed of the room, queen size, the curtains open and the windows too. The room was hot, but now it is cold, the nighttime wind coming through two windows surrounding Anna is on her phone and she turns on the speaker, she plays an audio track looped for ten hours, rain sounds on sidewalks, rain sounds on the street. The speakers are good, the sound is crisp and surrounding. Anna feels it travel through her body below her skin in waves. She goes flat on her back and closes her eyes, legs now straightened against the mattress, her arms limp at her shoulders. She has the sudden sensation of the bed tilting, she feels her left side sink and then rise again, as if she is moving forward without moving at all. Anna closes her eyes tighter and focuses on the rhythm of the raindrops, the violent quickening and then the letting go. In memory, the raindrops arrive. She does not feel them beyond the wind coming into the room. An infant, in a stroller, being pushed in the rain without ever getting wet.

ii.

Jacob is not asleep yet. Jacob is not asleep, but he is lying in his car, in the backseat, cocooned in an old polyester blanket. Outside there is a storm, violently quickening as the thunder rolls in. The streetlights of the rest stop parking lot are severe and the raindrops leave incandescent streaks on the window. Jacob places the crook of his elbow over his eyes, lets the dark weight of his arm settle on his forehead. Now his shoulders nestle up against the firm slant of the seat and he feels as if he is being tipped out, cradled only in one direction. His pulse skips between his forearm and his eyes as the rhythm begins to slow. The wind whips outside, the cold cuts through the night sky, but Jacob is warm under his soft, large blanket. He is shielded by the heat of his own body, rocked by the sound of rain battering the rooftop. A sensory symphony, that he does all but feel. An infant, in a stroller, being pushed in the rain without ever getting wet.

iii.

The child is not asleep yet. The child is not asleep, but she is lying in her carriage, the topmost covered by the canopy, her little curled fists in mittens. Her coat is lined with sherpa, her hat is pulled down to her chin, but still the wind tickles her nose as she moves down the street. It is wet, the rain comes down fast and hard like spit. The child does not feel any of this, the only indication is the sound it makes on the ground, the tapping that is both violent and quick. She feels the drops come down and the carriage move forward, the hitch of the wheel on an uneven path. The only thing she sees is the black of the canopy, now streaked darker in some places, the water’s own journey in rivulets. But the water, and the cold, are outside and she is an infant, in a stroller, being pushed in the rain without ever getting wet.

Veeda Khan reads and writes in New Jersey. Her work has appeared in Zone 3, Portland Review, Dreginald, SAND, and elsewhere.