Echoes [by Laura]

One late night - or early morning, before sunrise - I lay awake in bed in the summer house and listened. It was silent both inside and outside the house, except for the scraping inside the wall which must have been a mouse. Outside, only the trees were rustling a little in the wind, and water was dripping from the drainpipe. It was probably just sleep creeping up on me, but I felt a strange sense of peace descend.

As I woke up with the birds again at sunrise - which happens at around four in the morning – burying my head under a pillow to block out the persistent bird-song, I was reminded of one Christmas holiday at the summer house. In winter-time, there are barely any sounds, except that which you bring with you. The creaking of the snow under your foot. Swish and rustle of your winter-wear. Sound of your breath and the inevitable sniffing of runny nose. Nature is asleep, except for the ice, which cracks and creaks as it expands in the cold.

(My sister’s husband, a Londoner, used to be scared of the absence of sound in the depths of the Finnish winter. Even in the quiet parts of London, there’s always a hum of traffic in the background.)

When I came back to the city after my couple of weeks at the summer house, I missed the silence dearly. In the quietude of nature, other sounds become pronounced, and they leave a long-lasting imprint into your mind.

Swan-calls echoing around the lake, giant wings beating the water and air to get airborne;

Fire crackling in the fire-pit, a hiss as the charred wood-pile collapses into glowing embers; grill-sausage sizzling on the metal grate; the eeeeeeeeeeeee of the mosquito which bypasses brain entirely and goes directly to the primal instincts and promotes terror;

Water lapping against the pier; pen whispering against the paper; shrill whistle of sparrows hunting insects; indistinct sound of my mother talking on top of the hill;

Trees rustling in the wind; sound of wood-chopping from across the lake; cows mooing on a distant farm in the evening; dog barking; Formula-1 sound of a beetle flying past your ear;

Startled birds escaping the vegetable patch in the pre-dawn glow, protesting loudly at the early outhouse-seeker; father coughing in his sleep inside the house; flies buzzing at the compost heap;

Creak of the rocking chair (significantly louder since the grandchildren broke one of the legs); rain drumming the roof; clatter of dishes; melancholy Finnish tango on the radio.

Sigh.

As I'm writing this in the office, I can see the forest outside, but I can't hear it. There are machines and trucks outside making a lot of noise. Somewhere, a plane is taking off. In the background, people are talking. The sound of typing is prominent in the small room. I turn the radio on louder, kick off my sandals, lean back and dig my toes into the carpet, imagining a field of grass. Inevitably, the taste of past holidays lose potency like the four-leaf clover I saved between the pages of a thick book. But, for the moment, it lingers.



Although otherwise common as muck, Laura claims the title of the Queen of Procrastination. She's also an expatriate Finn who spends most of the time inside her own head - out of which the words overflow on their own accord. Any resemblance to coherence is therefore purely coincidental.