Do you remember when you lived next door? With walls separated by a trickle of a lane, we talked through bruised and mottled tin cans. Your brother punctured holes; I found some string. We were close enough that an open window could carry our breath across but, to keep our words from the birds, we talked into the rattle and echo of aluminium.
I pictured your room as you described it, but your dad, the noisy one with the large fists, wouldn’t let me upstairs so I was never sure. You saw my room though. My dad, the quiet one with the sad eyes and cloudy breath, wasn’t around much.
I would eat my dinner fast enough to hurt then run upstairs, the cold of it pressed to my ear, waiting for the string to tighten with quick vibrations. We talked nothing like it meant everything. Once, something like heat bubbled right up to my teeth when you talked about a singer that was talented as well as cute. What is your favourite song? I should ask you that soon.
When my dad forgot to go back to work after lunch with the horses, we had to move across town. The houses were dustier and there was no lane between the walls, but the string was long enough. I had so much to tell you but I preferred to listen. The melody of your voice through that taut wire was the nicest thing in that house. I gathered up as much of it as possible and tried to keep it in a little piggy bank but it kept escaping through sellotaped cracks.
Mostly, you sounded happy, like you were two-stepping away from what went on downstairs, but sometimes, those shouts spilled into my ear too. I pretended not to hear them and asked you about that band. I knew when things were tough because my can would be quiet, empty, the string hanging limp across my carpet and I cried for you on those nights; big, bubbly hot ones. I never told you that though because men are supposed to have rocks and stones under their skin. My dad said things like that.
You told me that you were moving away; your mother was taking your brother and you to stay with her sister in some place you couldn’t pronounce. I asked you to try so that I could find it on my map but it was torn in the important places so I asked you to come home soon instead. We held onto those cans that day and I watched as the thread grew thinner. Your voice still filled my room for a while and then nothing. I’m not sure how far you had travelled before it snapped.
I still talk to you. The can is a little rusted and bent out of shape from the time my dad stood on it by mistake but later, when I go upstairs, I will ask you about your favourite song.
Scan QR code above to hear audio accompaniment of Tin Can Phones, or click https://me-qr.com/music/20487274
David O'Neill 