My house is a fortress. Its walls thick, windows double-paned, most of which don’t open. The roof covered with metal shingles. On most days and nights, especially in the wee hours, it blocks the outside world.

It’s often so quiet, so quiet I can hear the blood whooshing past my ears.

If I listen, truly listen, however, there are sounds. My cats dashing through the house, their paws like mallets on the bamboo flooring. Another cat chattering at a bird that’s settled by a window. The drip, drip, drip of a faucet left on. The ticking and chiming of clocks. And beeping of electronics turning on-and-off.

The outside also penetrates. Hum of a lawn mower, rumble of a passing car or truck, barking of my neighbor’s dogs, roar of the Navy jets overhead.

For the most part, there is silence.

When I do venture away from home, my voice joins the cacophony of discordant sounds. Talking, laughing, giggling and crying, hubbub of commerce, continuum of traffic, chirping birds, bossy crows, people singing and whistling, fragments of music wafting from cars and devices. All mixed together, the symphony of civilization.

I like to dissect the sounds, discerning from where they originate. Matching conversation with body language, deciphering greetings from idle banter and informative discussion from incensed discourse. Inhaling the infectious joy of a mother doting on a child. Mumblings of someone impatiently waiting in line, shifting from foot to foot. Fragments of sentences between an elderly couple whose thoughts are consonant, sparing the need for lengthy conversation.