The Vacancy of Noise

Apple fruit

(Photo credit: @Doug88888)

Life is noisy.

My house is never quiet–even when I’m sleeping–the radios in my sons’ rooms buzz with the campus radio station‘s DJ, my cat scratches at the headlight’s casts on the walls, the clock in my dining room chimes the familiarity of time passing.  My husband snores.  The late-night truckers haul by.  Occasionally, someone coughs.  I sigh.  My dog whimpers in time with her legs, galloping horizontally on nothing.

Today I ate an apple in my house alone.  I sat on the couch with a steak knife and a gala.  Usually, my son would be by my side, asking me to skin the apple, and instead, I cut off an entire chunk and snapped it under my teeth, gnoshed the white meat from around the core.

I almost made plans with my husband to go to lunch instead of coming home, alone.

I almost asked the new hair salon to trim my ends.

I almost tried to make the college archivist’s business hours.

If there is one thing this first semester in Goddard‘s MFA program has taught me, it is the absence of moments like this, the sacredness of them.

 

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About Sarah Cedeño

Sarah Cedeño received her BA and MA in Creative Writing from SUNY-Brockport, and her MFA in fiction from Goddard College. Her work has appeared in The Rumpus, Hippocampus Magazine, The Bellevue Literary Review, Literary Mama, and Redactions. She lives in Brockport with her husband and two sons and teaches writing at SUNY-Brockport. View all posts by Sarah Cedeño

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