There was a time when I heard nothing.
Nothing.
Not the croaking of tree frogs screaming over and over again. The rustling of leaves scratching at the street as they made their escape from one lawn to the other. Not even the screech of some far off car escaping from something or trying to make its way home after some night shift.
None of it.
Nothing.
Only the quiet dead movement of blistering hot Summer air.
I remember I lay in bed atop the covers sweating and turning from side to side to find a position that worked.
When Tracey was still in the house it was easier to find a position. There had been a certain order. An understanding. I had my side of the bed (left) and she had her side (right, like with everything else about her, always right).
But now that Tracey lived with Martin over on Maple Avenue, just across from the elementary school and not too far from what would be the new Piggly-Wiggly, I was left to try and find a position in bed that worked. I moved over and took her side.
Seemed right.
She took everything else from me. I might as well take her side of the bed.
I punched the pillow a few times to soften it and then tried to get the last three hours of sleep in before I had to get up and shower and get Tammy ready for school. It was my week with her and we were still working through it just being me and her every other week and alternating holidays.
We were working through it all.
It was hard enough telling a six year old about why daddy still lived in their old house while mommy lived over on Maple Avenue with the mustached jerk who use to prepare our taxes.
Much less trying to get up at six to make sure her backpack was filled with all of the right books and peanut oil-free snacks.
But I was just about there. I could feel the sleep.
My eyes were staying closed and my breathing was getting thicker and heavier with every minute. I was being dragged down into the black hole that is sleep when suddenly it began.
Soft at first.
Like a rustling of far off porch chimes.
Almost soothing.
But not clean like a piano. Instead there was a certain broken static to it. Like a radio playing underwater from a car that had been pushed into a lake.
The louder it got the more I got pulled out from the hole that was sleep. I still lay in bed with my eyes closed but I was awake.
I turned my head a bit to bring the sound in louder. And it was louder. And the louder and closer it got, the more familiar it became.
No longer the ringing of some distant chimes or a far off radio. It was familiar. Something I knew.
I started to follow along and hum the tune in my head.
Da da da dah da . . .
I knew the song. The more I listened, the more I understood.
It was the old song from the neighborhood ice cream truck. From when I was little.
Mister, mister something. I searched my memory as I lay in bed.
Mr. Frosty!
That was it. Mr. Frosty. Only that was not it. It was spelled "Mister" not just "Mr.".
