Yesterday a man built an escape route to heaven. They said he had severe perceptual disorders, so he made a huge pipe that twisted and coiled all the way to a place without ears. A place for people who were never meant to be on earth.
I found a shell on the beach, and when I picked it up, it was like a reflection of the secret tunnels of my ear. It was filled with faraway sounds and I wondered if I could crawl inside and find a path to reach you. I couldn’t even squeeze my littlest finger past the first gentle curve, but a few grains of sand dust the palm of my hand, like memories, whispers cradled in the belly of the shell.
I read books about sound waves and resonance, trying to find the path to the sounds in the shell, trying to find the way to your voice, but my books only speak about numbers. They can’t tell me the resonance that is closest to heaven. They know nothing of the vibration of a soul falls in tune.
Every pipe has its own resonant frequency.
We had to build pipes to push the air into your lungs, but I didn’t pay attention to their length or diameter. I didn’t know such things could become so important.
After they switched off the machines you opened your mouth, as though to cry for the first time and I imagined intricate tubes inside your chest branching into a thousand tiny alveoli, blossoming with that one small breath. A tiny gasp. It was the only sound you ever made.
I wonder if you look out of place in heaven, where all the children have no ears. Perhaps they are silent, like you. Perhaps I only see your ears, like two delicate shells, because I am trapped in my own perceptual disorder.
You must have been small enough to crawl inside and slip around the corner.
When I hold the shell to my ear and listen for the ocean, all I can hear is the gentle flowering of breath.