I grew up in the city, in neighborhoods where there was very little sign of Nature. When I was eleven years old we moved to an apartment building with a large front lawn, and I discovered I could hear the grass humming.
No one believed that, of course. 'What a wonderful imagination!' said my parents, my teachers. I quickly learned not to speak of it to my schoolmates. But I still heard the lawn. I enjoyed its simple melodies. That Summer, the cicadas' buzzing harmonized with the grass. In the Fall, I heard the trees for the first time, each falling leaf its own instrument; the birds sang in counterpoint. Winter was quieter, except for snowstorms' wind ensembles. Spring came, and every growing thing had a voice.
My parents were slow to realize how much I had changed. I was not unruly, merely... distracted. The music captivated me, and I neglected schoolwork, hobbies, friends, to pursue it. By late Spring, I was failing all my classes, and seemed completely alienated from other children. Clearly, something had to be done. My parents took me to a hospital in the country.
At first, the music was stronger than ever. Everywhere I turned in those woods, the songs of the trees combined with the birds in symphonies; the summer thunderstorms were choirs of gods. The music drowned out the therapeutic voices of the doctors.
I cannot remember, now, what kind of treatment the doctors used after I stopped hearing their questions. Next Spring, trees were silent; birds only chirped; thunder merely rumbled.
The doctors thought I was cured, that they had taken the music away. Sad but undistracted, I slowly made up the year of schoolwork I had missed. I have seemed perfectly normal ever since.
A few months ago, I heard a flute-like melody. It was coming from a lamppost. I ignored it. Over the next week, I heard more and more piping from streetlights. Walking past a construction site, I heard girders harmonizing: clear, strong tones like tenor saxophones.
The music is back with me, now; but it only comes from artifacts. When I leave the city, Nature is silent to me. But the songs of the city are good.
Best of all is riding the subway, especially express trains. Hosts of angels sing, without words, in praise of the Almighty.
Copyright 1993 Edward Gaillard. All rights reserved.