Sound?sound fascinates me. It makes me feel--calm, anxious, worried, and sometimes, crazy. But, never angry. The first time I noticed sounds around me was when I was a baby in the crib. The leaves of the cherry tree out side my window whispered to me. When I cried to be picked up at night, I heard angry sounds--my parents fighting. The flower vase crashing onto the wall and breaking into pieces that sprayed into my crib. Then, I'd hear my own scream penetrate the night. I'd pause for a moment just to hear the lack of sound which I?d then break with another piercing scream. My parents seldom interrupted their own noise to pick me up. As I exhaust my lungs I'd hear another rhythm rising out of my baby chest. Yes, I listened to the sounds of my own heartbeat that raced through the pitch blackness of my crib. My heartbeats gave me a steady momentum. It was the only thing I could count on among all my erratic movements: chubby, flailing arms that waved like antennas of a sea anemone--arms, which often boxed me with clenched fists. Fat legs that kicked in protest desiring to run away from those angry sounds at night. But, it was the whispers of leaves which wafted into my crib through the open window that lulled me to sleep. Even the humidity of my room did not disturb me as I lay in sweat soaked blankets. They told my mother that I was different. I was slow, slower than children of my age. I am five years old. The "test lady" told my mother that I was a three-year old inside my five year old body. I know it's not true because I am smarter than my three-year-old baby sister, Maggie. No one knows this. Although, she did show me how to button up my shirt straight up the front of my belly, right up to my throat. I have fat fingers that act like melting butter. I can?t hold pencils, crayons or buttons "correctly". My mother told me I needed to hold tight until I'd get a good "correct" grip. I don?t know what that means. Color dominates my actions. Red paint, red nail polish, red cloth, red crayons and even red lipstick make me react. My mother smacked me for eating her red and orange lipsticks. My teacher punished me for biting bits off the red crayons she had sorted for the children to draw a sunset with. The "talking lady" told my mother that I was "oral" and that I would outgrow it. But she does not know me. She does not know the power "red" has over me. She has not seen me jab my finger with a paper clip until red oozes out. A slow trickle, first and then a welling of red--bright- ruby- red, pigeon-blood- red as it runs over the dent of the jab. While I watch, the first drop falls in slow motion as it splatters onto the concrete in a perfect circle with jagged edges. Almost like a small setting sun. Through practice I have learned that the angle of my wounded finger makes the splash a circle or even an oval like a rain drop. "Oval" is the shape I learned in school. Oval rain drops, oval tears, and oval blood drops. Then, with a small stick, I trace red shapes and stick figures of my mother, baby Maggie and me. I know I can hold a paper clip correctly when I draw red. But, I don?t draw my father. ...............To be continued