A Click in the Night 🦶🏼
The people we love ... and their ankles that pop
This morning, West’s ankle clicked from the kitchen.
My apartment is small, but a wall divides the bedroom from the living room, the kitchen, the bathroom. If West and Mister aren’t in my room, it’s pretty easy to guess where they are. I live in a big apartment building that at its best feels like a hotel and and its worst feels like a dorm. Most of the time, I barely see anyone.
Actually, no.
I guess I just see the same three people over and over: a guy with a golden retriever I’ve watched grow from floppy puppy to overjoyed adult (the dog, not the guy), a grumpy teen who uses the lobby as his personal office, and an older woman who always wears a mask and a bandana on her head, which I pray is a fashion statement and not an indication that she’s sick.
I don’t know what these people’s ankles sound like; I become completely unaware of them the moment I close my door.
But the click.
Hearing it was like regaining an old echolocation superpower. When I was a kid, I was always aware of where my five family members were in the house. It was like the tik of a clock; I would get so used to their sounds that I could block them out, but once I tuned in again, I couldn’t unhear them.
My mom’s ankle clicks.
It has since I was at least eight and moved into my childhood bedroom on the second floor of our house. She used to be a ballerina, I would think when I’d hear the click of her going down the stairs. If I rolled my ankle in the air with enough force, I could make it crunch, but it made me nervous I could dislocate my whole foot. And then my lost appendage would turn into a gross off-brand Thing from The Addams Family, scuttling around on its toes.
My mom’s ankle clicks, and my dad clears his throat. My littler brother would take the steps at odd intervals, like some kind of rascally cartoon character, bonk bonk bonk. He’d also rollerblade around and around the first floor, through the kitchen, around the staircase. That made him pretty easy to echolocate. My older little brother got tall fast and I don’t know how to explain that I could hear he was tall from my room, but I could and I did. My baby sister moved through the house like one of our cats, slinking from room to room, probably instinctually trying to stay under the radar of tormenting older siblings. The best was when I’d hear someone laughing.
There are six of us, which is a lot of people.
I used to imagine us coming into a restaurant was akin to the circus coming to town. But we are not a loud family. I guess there was a phase where we all yelled to each other from different floors instead of getting up and talking at a normal volume, but that was reserved for general announcements, like dinner being ready or the fury of finding out a brother ate your leftover chimichanga. At school, I was loud. I sang in the hallways, I barked jokes during class. My choir teacher often told me to sing quieter because I was drowning out the rest of the altos.
Home was different. Home was sanctuary, and I think we all recharged in the peacefulness.
And the quiet made it really hard to sneak out during high school. But that’s another story for another time.
In the spirit of celebrating the lasting impact of a single ankle click, I investigated what causes the the noise. Unfortunately, it’s not that interesting: either the tendon is tight and rubs against a tendon or bone (gag) or excess gas gets released from the ankle joint.
You know, like an ankle fart.
now you try
I invite you to notice a sound, smell, object, person — whatever! — in your life that has significance because it connects you to a memory or an emotion. What does your dish towel make you think of? Have you always preferred pens to pencils? Do your shoes fit okay?
Do your ankles fart?
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