Last Tuesday at 7:10 pm I came home from work and stepped out of the elevator.
Somewhere down the hall a pressure cooker whistled. 3 times, then a long one, the way it does at the end.
I stopped walking. My bag slid off my shoulder and hit the floor and I didn't pick it up.
I was thousands of kilometres from my mother's kitchen, but I could almost smell the dal.
I stood there for maybe a minute. A neighbour opened her door and asked, are you okay?
I said, yes, sorry, that sound. She looked at me, then at her kitchen, and said, you want to come in?
I said no, no, thank you. I picked up my bag and went into my own flat.
It was cold and silent. I made instant noodles in the microwave. Poor ending to a good moment.
It's strange because I didn't miss the cooker when I lived at home. It was loud and it woke me at 6.
My mother started the rice at 6:30 and the whole house heard it, probably the whole street too.
I used to put a pillow over my head. 11 years ago I would have paid someone to make it stop.
Now I'd pay someone to bring it back for 10 minutes.
Since then I hear it most evenings around 7. I walk slowly past her door now, on purpose.
I haven't said anything. She has no idea she's my favourite part of the building.
What sound does that to you? Not the big ones like a wedding band. The small ordinary ones.
Mine is a cooker. Somebody else's must be a bicycle bell or a ceiling fan.