•Sunday•When I first moved to New York, I heard crickets at night for about six months. Phantom crickets. No joke. Because back on the island, you always heard them at night. Crickets and tree frogs. And sometimes toads, I guess. But it wasn't something you could escape. Unless you had a soundproof room, you heard them anywhere you went. Even with the TV on. Headphones drowned 'em out, I guess. But I think I even heard them then.
It wasn't annoying. It was very pretty, actually. I can easily recall certain songs the crickets and tree frogs used to sing. One cricket being an asshole. Chirping much louder than everyone else. I used to imagine them all glaring at him. Rolling their eyes, maybe. Sometimes I'd actually find him. In a corner in my room or under my bed. Sometimes I'd torture him out of boredom and curiosity. Most times I let him go.
I had no idea the songs they played would be burned so deeply into my brain. I mean, when I first came to New York, it was in January. Definitely no crickets around. I heard them anyway. At night when everything else was quiet. When everything else shut up for sleep, the phantom crickets started. It went on like that for a while until I moved to Westchester. One night I muted the TV and for some reason, then, I heard the silence that really was there all along. Damn, I'm fucked up.
