Content Warning: This essay references childhood trauma.

By Guest Writer

“Are you ready?” I ask my husband, my voice hushed and cheeks flushed.

“Yes,” he says. “Turn off the lights.” I flick two switches, one to shut off the kitchen, the other to shut off the porch.

“Don’t get caught,” I caution before watching him slip out the back door with a six foot ladder.

Wind whips through the air, practically ripping the black ball cap off his head. I inhale sharply when a flash of lightning streaks across the sky.

My husband quietly unlatches the gate and walks four steps onto my neighbor’s property. Her blinds are drawn but a bright blue hue tells me her television is still on. “Hurry,” I panic whisper, willing the wind to carry my concern across the space.

He deftly sets the ladder up and climbs onto the top step. His hands stretch toward the loud, metallic wind chimes clanking and clattering at the onset of the storm. My husband can’t reach high enough to remove the chimes from the branch, but he is able to wrap a thick rubber band around the bottom to mute their motion.

Raindrops begin to splatter, and I watch him scurry down the steps, collapse the ladder, and hustle back to our property. He walks into the kitchen with his eyebrows raised.

A thunderclap ricochets in the distance, but the chimes now sway silently in the tree. For the first night in many, their sound will be unable to carry to and through my bedroom window.

“Do you think you can sleep now?” my husband grins.

***

“The rubber band snapped,” I complain to my counselor a week later. Tornado season is unrelenting in Tennessee, and this year, with a needy newborn and the racket from my neighbor’s backyard, I am completely unable to cope. “I can’t sleep, and I’m losing my mind.”

My counselor tilts her head to the side and places her pen on her notepad. “Have you considered asking your neighbor to take the chimes down?”

I throw my hands in the air. “I made two dozen of my best chocolate chip cookies, wrote a handwritten letter, and left them on the front porch!”

She squints her eyes. “And did she respond?”

“No,” I huff. “The chimes are still there.”

“What about a sound machine?” she asks, searching for alternatives I have not yet considered.

I shake my head. “I want to be able to hear my kids when they need me at night. My youngest is still nursing.”

She nods slowly. “What about you?” she presses. “What do you need?”

Sleep, I think, but refuse to speak it out loud. The second I say it she’ll encourage me to do something about it. “I just need the chimes to disappear,” I mutter.

The wary look on my counselor’s face tells me she can see through the lie. “What happens when you hear the chimes?” she asks.

My shoulders stiffen and my stomach churns as my thoughts plummet into the past.

***

My mom is screaming at my dad again. It’s late, and I’m supposed to be asleep, but I’m huddled in the stairwell unable to move or breathe. Angry, violent words slip out of her lips, sending shrapnel away from her intended target and straight into my ten-year-old heart.

Their fights escalate quickly. It's typically harsh words followed by slamming doors and a lone car screeching out of the driveway. This time, when I unexpectedly hear glass breaking, my body moves into action.

I chase the noise into the hallway, making sure my parents’ backs are turned away from my startled face. I lift my hands over my mouth, silencing sobs that threaten to give away my position. In her hands, my mom holds a hammer, driving it forcefully through the framed family portraits lining the wall. Glass shards shatter into our formerly smiling faces. I move my hands to cover my ears, the noise too much for me to take.

I sprint back to my bedroom, the thick carpet muffling my pounding feet. Then I close the door, sneak under the sheets, and try my hardest to fall asleep.

***

The latest storm ended an hour ago. What remains of the rubber band lies uselessly on the ground, so I’m wide awake listening to the unwelcome clanging coming through my windowsill. My eyes flit to my husband, resting peacefully, completely unaware of the chaos raging within me. I refuse to wake him up, knowing one of us has to sleep. And so I wait, alone in the darkness, my mind a poor companion.

Clang. The wind chimes collide, and adrenaline courses through my veins. Clang. Tiny beads of sweat begin to pool along my hair. Clang. The beat of my heart pounds within my chest. Clang. My breathing hitches beneath my breast. Clang. The whoosh of my pulse swirls wildly around my ears. Clang. My tired body floods with faults, worries, and fears.

Clang. The wind chimes clamor, and my mind seizes upon every sound. Clang. They work together to sabotage my sleep. Clang.

***

“You're having panic attacks,” my counselor says after I relive my most recent episode.

“I know,” I sigh, this isn’t news to me. “I’ve had them for a while.”

She leans closer with an assessing gaze. “How long is a while?”

I shrug my shoulders and brush my hair behind my ears, “Since I was a kid, I guess.”

She clasps her hands and pushes me farther, “Close your eyes and try to remember the first time.”

I feel silly sitting in her office with my eyes closed, but I trust her enough to give it a try. I settle into the silence and use her calming voice as a guide. Gradually, I walk backwards through my mind.

I walk past my three childbirths and the needy newborn haze. Past the early years of my marriage, rife with in-law arguments and growing pains. The death of my beloved grandfather and the stress of job changes. My mound of student loan debt that I eventually paid. I push past high school drama, into middle school angst. Past my first pair of glasses with the tortoise shell frames. Until at last I’m standing in my childhood home where one lone memory flickers to the forefront. I hear the hammer shattering into the glass, as if it happened yesterday.

Tears of a ten-year-old fill my eyes. “The chimes,” I finally say. “They remind me of my mother.”

***

A few weeks after I deliver my handwritten letter, my husband calls from the kitchen, “You have to come see this.” I assume one of the kids is up to mischief, so I hurry. He gestures towards the back door, and I glance out the window to where my neighbor stands with a long pole in her hands.

“I can’t believe it,” I breathe, watching her use a small hook at the end to lift the chimes over the branch and off the tree. I throw open the door and race through the yard, “Thank you!” I shout to get her attention.

She turns, a hint of disappointment marring her face. “The storm was especially loud last night,” she says.

“Yes it was,” I agree. I hold my hands out in a gesture of goodwill. “Thank you for taking down the chimes.”

“You’re welcome,” she replies, albeit reluctantly. “Maybe we can try them again another time?”

My heart stammers, but I nod. “That sounds like a plan,” I say. It’s not what I hope for, but it’s a compromise. I wave goodbye and walk away.

My husband folds me into his arms when I step into the kitchen. “Do you think you can sleep now?” he asks, pressing a kiss onto my head. A yawn escapes my lips, a simple answer to his question.

I breathe in the quiet of my kitchen, grateful for the temporary relief. This isn’t a permanent solution, but between counseling and sound sleep, I pray it will give me time to heal from the trauma of my past. I may never love the wind chimes the way my neighbor does, but perhaps I can learn to live next to them in peace.

Photo by Jennifer Floyd.