cricket-sound

The crickets are back. I hadn’t heard them before tonight. The quintessential summer-night sound. Softer than the shrill cicada whir of hot, sticky southern summer nights, heavy air close around your skin. The cricket-sound is more subdued. This is the languid sitting-outside-under-a-mercury-lamp sound, bare knees tucked up and glowing, grass lit up phosphorescent yellow-green, fingers poking with twigs at the tiny insects hopping from blade to blade. This is the sound you hear in your little-girl years, lying in bed awake as the grown-ups go about with their grown-up lives, their murmur passing through the wall from the den, mixing with the tv drone and summer night sounds. The headlights from passing cars make squares of rolling light on your wall, the breeze blows in through the open window, and the zig-zag rhythm of the crickets lulls you gently into little-girl sleep. All is well in the world.

I find myself awakening on the living room couch tonight to the sound of the crickets. Dennis comes in from his run. The screen door slams shut. Dinner is half-cooked in the kitchen. “C,mon, I’m not that late!” Dennis says with a grin as my eyes blink open. I had fallen asleep with the words of Annie Dillard running through my head, finger still holding the page in my new book, stretched out on the couch, with my cat’s soft little body pressed against my stomach, thinking, what could be more perfect in the world? A summer night, the sound of crickets, a purring cat…

I played hooky from work today. Thought I was getting sick yesterday, told my manager I’d be working from home. But I woke up feeling fine. Better than fine, because I decided to stay home anyway. Commuted 15 seconds from bedroom to living room. Worked from the couch, frumpy and unshowered. Sat outside eating blueberries while Dennis fixed my bike. Went to taekwondo with more energy than I’ve had in two years. I think I might be on to something.

I get up from my doze to finish cooking dinner. Nectarine shrimp from my old brown recipe notebook. Scribbled in rough estimates, given to me by the owner himself of the Five Spice Café in Burlington, Vermont. The last time I ever ate there, the last time I was in Burlington. That would be about six years ago to the month. I think. Dennis’ friend, Merry Moses, is moving to Middlebury in September. We said we’d visit her lots. I can’t wait to eat at Five Spice again.

Heat oil in wok. Add garlic, don’t let it brown. Add olek sambal chili sauce, 1 teaspoon. Add coconut milk, 1/2 cup. Add fish sauce, Squid brand, 1 tablespoon. Bring to a simmer. Add shrimp and sliced onions. Sugar peas, etc. Cook nectarines through.

I cut a tomato from the garden. It is redder than I’ve ever seen a tomato be. It practically glows under the bright kitchen light. I tear up lettuce. Slice a cucumber, an avocado. I bought a sunchoke from Wholefoods today. “Do you know what a sunchoke is?” I ask Dennis, holding up the shriveled brown root. “A what? A sunchoat?” My mother used to buy them for me. I never knew what they were but I liked the crunchiness.

What could be more perfect in the world? I ask myself at the dinner table. Dennis is chattering away, I’m being quiet, words and cricket-sound running through my head. I stumble over the perfect part. It’s like I’m waiting for something. A pinnacle of some sort. Why? What is a pinnacle in life? What is perfect? Nothing more than this. This is life. A summer night. The sound of crickets. The breeze blowing the curtains in the neighbor’s window, in ours. A black cat on the window sill and another under the table. A mess of dishes in the kitchen. Dinner on the table. Warm companionship. “The applechokes are great!” Dennis says.

What could be more perfect?

I’m sitting outside now trying to think of what the word is that describes the cricket-sound. Not a chirp, or a whir or a whine or a buzz… I’m sitting in the dark, the porch light has shut itself off, my computer screen casts a blue glow around me. I don’t have an answer. I can’t think of a word for the sound of crickets…