I have a memory of being a child and playing a game with my sister by the seaside. Sitting on a big stone, side by side, facing the sea what looked different each day, she said:
“Let’s play a game where we name everything that we can hear. Who cannot name anything anymore, loses. I’ll start.”
“Okay,” I agreed, as I did with everything she said. She was my favourite person. What she liked, I liked. What she said, I said. I wrapped my arms around my small knees. Let’s play a game.
“Sea”
“Wind”
“Birds”
“The wings of the birds”
“Grass”
“A boat”
“Waves”
“Water”
“Isn’t that the same as the sea?” she asked.
“No, you can hear the dripping. Listen!” I answered.
We listen.
Drip, drip, drip.
“Okay. A plane”
I look up. There is a plane flying over us, leaving traces to the cloudless sky.
“Dad”
“The other man dad is talking to”
“Barking dog” she lists.
I listen carefully, selecting out all the sounds that have been already named. I rub my hand on my leg, thinking would that count as something to be listed. I know she would argue. I’m trying to hear anything else. Birds have already been said. Waves, water, stones, grass, wind, wings…
“Your turn,” she says.
“I cannot hear more,” I say.
“You lost!” she announces.
I’m not arguing. I knew I lost.
“Okay,” she says. The waves take over the short silence, small birds chirping as they fly over the water. “Now, let’s list everything that we can see.”