"Can you hear it?" he asks. And if questions can be memories, then this one is the first time my mom let my brother and I cross the busy street near our house without supervision. We held hands and ran fast. Our hearts beating up and into our throats. Full up on the freedom and fear of newness.

I smile and watch him move his lips and tongue. He's concentrating so hard--like a small child fighting the slippery unpredictable movements of ice cream cones. He wants to know if I can hear it. He places the fingers of his right hand on my mouth. Tries to pull my lips into a pucker. His left hand against his own mouth. Tracing the shapes. Measuring the differences. I laugh, realizing how often I do that now without audible evidence.

He tries again. And some strange melody stuck in his head spreads out between us. He can't hear the sounds coming out of his mouth. Slipping between his tongue and teeth. To hang in the air of the memory of this room. Unsure, he's still enjoying the moments of discovery. He smiles wide eyed into my face, as if my ears might make the act more meaningful.

And suddenly, I feel like I'm on the edge of something. Face flushed. Heart running circles around me. I put my hand on his chest, then layer his on top of mine--measure the feel of sound from the rise and fall. Shut my eyes.

"Yes," I say, "Yes, I can hear it."