The refrigerator door was open and I was leaning half way in it to get a blast of cool air. It was the first time it had stormed in years and I think we had become so accustomed to the dry that the moisture in the air from the rain seemed intolerable. A kind of muggy reserved for the bogs in the deep south. Where just the thought of moving was enough to make you sweat.
There was a moment when I got stuck in there, lost, looking at all the food that was in there. A yogurt which hopefully hadn't been in there too long. Strawberries, oranges, cheese, margarine. A container with what looked like meat and that was when I began to hear music. The most beautiful string instruments in an orchestra were playing. I could be watching an opera with the starring cast of lettuce and a pancake. It got louder and more dramatic. Certainly this had to be coming from somewhere, it sounded too real to not be real.
So I left the sanctuary of the fridge and listened. Waited to hear the symphony and find relief in knowing who the artist was so I could listen to the song again. And as I stood there, I could hear the refrigerator cooler kick on. I could hear my father turning a page in his book and my cat walking down the hall. With each step his claws would snag in the shag carpet. But there was no music. I stuck my head back into the frosty world as it occurred to me the fridge could have been emitting the sound. Yet there was nothing.
No comments:
Post a Comment