real little,

earliest memories little,

bedwetting little,

biting humans (when mad) little,

Dino Nugget dinner little,

it would come upon me,

what I would learn to be

tinnitus. Pronounced tinnitus.

Though till college I called it ten-uh-tuss,

not ten-eye-tuss. It would come upon me

in my right ear. Loud,

but not loud.

Deafening,

but not damaging,

like stepping into a waterfall,

ringing. Washing over you,

overcoming you, but one long ring,

not bells. A hum. A high hum.

A high hum so loud not loud

the world around fades away, recedes,

a dimming dial dialing down.

Your own new world enveloping you,

protecting you.

Scary. Not scary. It passes in seconds.

You call it ... God. So you say to your child self,

"God, every time you come to me,

it is your promise to love me

for one more year."

But these were the days of Cingular Jack:

rollover minutes, rollover deals—

not unlimited. Scarcity world.

AT&T blasting commercials.

No more use it or lose it.

Save it. For later. So,

being a child, I ask God if we can have

rollover rings, rollover love. Save it.

For later. That for every time tinnitus

would come over me, I would add

one more year to God loving me.

Cumulative.

After a while, a year or so,

I hit that critical threshold:

one-hundred.

God will love me for certainly

longer than I will be alive. I'm saved.

(Nevermind reincarnation.)

So I no longer count. Just,

"Hello. Thank you. I love you too."

But now I wake—just yesterday—

to a new reality. The ringing

won't stop. Loud. Always. There.

A companion forever in my ear.

So much peace. "Could it be, God?

Will I go deaf?"

This pressure mounting,

hazy over life. Free. "God, please.

May I go deaf? Will you save me

from this engrossment.

My addiction to sound?"

Nevermind.

For at least, right now,

we are found. Ring. Ring.

Sweet, sweet, love.

Infinity.

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