The sound.
The sound of the door
opening and then closing softly.
The rattle of keys in a pocket.
The clanging of work boots on the kitchen floor.

The sound.
The sound of a spoon
mixing in a glass,
being tossed into the sink.

The sound.
the sound of the TV
ever so softly, matched
with the dim glow
meaning dad was home from work.

The sound.
The sound of singing.
Always offbeat, made up songs
my mother used to sing to me
as she did housework.

The sound.
The sound of classic rock music
blaring from the car stereo
as I drive with my family in the middle of nowhere.
No destination. No purpose.
Just driving.

The sound.
The sounds of my childhood.