The Color of Sound: Chapters 1–3

It’s not simply that I dream in music. I dream the notes as textures and colors, as feelings and temperatures and tastes. When I wake up and try to write it down, what comes out are fragments of ideas that don’t make much sense: lilies and velvet, sycamore trees, salt and butter, thick lines and thin wispy clouds, the smell of the first day of summer.

She says that when I was a toddler, I went on a nursing strike; I refused to breastfeed for a few days, and then all of a sudden I was back, more ravenous than ever.

Mom frowns, our eyes meeting briefly via the rearview mirror, but she doesn’t say anything more. I must drift off to sleep, because the next thing I know, we’re under a dappled canopy of green leaves, with walls of gray rock on either side of us, winding up a country road that might be familiar.

Mom always says rugs like this are more valuable if they’ve got threadbare patches and discolorations, which makes absolutely zero sense to me.

Mom has already told me that Grandma Florence has been getting worse lately—that she “doesn’t have much longer.” I hate that euphemism because it’s so vague. She’s dying. We know that.

Grandpa Jack taps lightly on the door, more staccato than a trill, using the knuckles of his right middle and ring fingers.

Back when Mom and Aunt Lily were growing up, I suppose their family was a busy rotation of sound—a Baroque string quartet like the one I played in at camp last summer, made up of two violins, a viola, and a cello.

Not only is this person the wrong age, she’s also sparkling and effervescent in a way my actual mother is not, with bold colors and pastels in the same key.

I look Shanna in the eyes, searching for concrete proof that she’s actually here and not a figment of my imagination.

Then again, what about Da Capo al Coda? That’s the musical instruction that tells you to replay a song from the beginning, until the coda, which takes the players on a different path from the first time.

Time. Time is linear. It’s measured.

I know now that what happened in the shed with Shanna hasn’t had any ripple effects. Because that’s the question Mom always asks lately, the same color red, the same intensity, with no nuance—no shadows of pink or highlights in yellow and orange. Nothing has changed with her.

I know now that what happened in the shed with Shanna hasn’t had any ripple effects. Because that’s the question Mom always asks lately, the same color red, the same intensity, with no nuance—no shadows of pink or highlights in yellow and orange. Nothing has changed with her.

Mom sighs, a rainbow cacophony flowing out, so rich I can basically feel it.

I know that what I have is called synesthesia and it’s mostly harmless, according to the experts who don’t have to deal with constant musical tracks playing in their heads or intense headaches from crowded areas.