And it's not even Thanksgiving

On a day in which my senses feel overwhelmed by the terribly too brightness of this world, my ears full of windchimes and churchbells and sirens and car alarms, an oppressive heat wrapped snuggly about my limbs, I recall a story which makes me rejoice in this onslaught of sensual attacks...

My cousin, born deaf and isolated from the usual social contrivances, experienced the world through books, moving lips and nimble flying fingers, her vision hungry for the communication her ears would not provide. After two decades living in her world and moving through ours, her hearing was surgically restored. I cannot comprehend her existence during those first few months, years, while she learned to interpret this new sensory information, learned to decode the sounds buzzing all around her.

One morning, as we began to prepare a picnic with uncles, aunts, and cousins of all ages, I witnessed her attempts to understand this new world. She was hearing some sound and begged us to tell her its source, its meaning. We were baffled, as none of us heard anything, and wondered if perhaps her ears were failing her...until the youngest cousin, her six-year-old self beaming with secrets we adults had long-forgotten, announced, "It's the wind."