Aural Memories

As I was driving home tonight, I noticed a trash can sitting outside on the street. Waiting for the returning homeowner to drag it back in, empty. It reminded me of a familiar summmer sound: the rumble of a plastic trash can dragging and bumping gently along the long cement driveway alongside our house, a signal that Dad was home from work. This was back in the day before wheels were integrated into every plastic trash can.
I wonder why the brain holds onto certain pieces of information, but then never manages to imprint others (like a co-worker's wife's name, or how much the electric bill was this month so Jason can pay me half.)
In the catacombs of my grey matter there will always be:
- The sound of a garbage can coming up the driveway
- Grown-up voices chattering downstairs at a dinner party
- The muffled click of the tape recorder turning off after a song on a radio mix tape
- Squeaking sneakers on a gym floor
- The screech of the Philadelphia El line making the turn by the York-Daupin station
- Any Honda starting up (I drove one for 10 years)
- His desk chair rolling across the wooden floor boards and Jason clearing his throat while working late in his office, as I snuggle deeper into the covers and fall asleep. This is probably one of the sounds I won't want to forget.

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