A stranger called this morning, dressed all in black and grey.
Put every sound into a bag, and carried them away.

The whistling of the kettle, the turning of the lock.
The purring of the kitten, the ticking of the clock.

The popping of the toaster, the crunching of the flakes.
When you spread the marmalade, the scraping noise it makes.

The hissing of the frying pan, the ticking of the grill.
The bubbling of the bathtub, as it starts to fill.

The drumming of the raindrops, on the windowpane.
When you do the washing-up, the gurgle of the drain.

The crying of the baby, the squeaking of the chair.
The swishing of the curtain, the creaking of the stair.

A stranger called this morning, he didn’t leave his name.
Left us only silence, life will never be the same.

                                                        All the Best – The Selected Poems of Roger McGough

If there was ever something that describes my feelings about my deafness, this poem by Roger McGough does this perfectly. I used to be able to hear quite “normally” but one by one, the sounds disappear from me, gradually, slowly, silently, without me even noticing until I realise yet another whole set of sounds are lost.  I wonder whether the author had, in fact, experienced some form of hearing loss in his life.  I think there is a good chance he or someone close to him had issues, as it completely and perfectly explains the feelings that have come with my own deafness, and the deep sense of loss that accompany it.

Part of my daughter’s English literature homework, this actually made me cry when I first read it, as it suddenly dawned on me just how my deafness has progressed over the years. Stealthily, it has crept up on me, blissfully unaware of the sounds lost to me until one day I find that I simply cannot hear those sounds any more.

I honestly don’t know whether it is a blessing or a curse that I have experienced these sounds in the past – because, on one hand, I know what I have lost, having been able to hear everything once upon a time – but on the other hand I almost (guiltily) wish I hadn’t because I would be unaware of what I had lost, and therefore would not have the profound feelings of loss that I do. I know I should be grateful I have had the chance to be able to hear, but I will also always know what I now no longer have.

So for now, I will appreciate and treasure every sound that I do hear, storing them in my memory, savouring each detail. Because I know the sound collector is still very much filling his bagwith sounds.

And he is by no means finished collecting them from me.

collecting sounds