Most days, I do not hear the bells.
Most days we are out on the town, grocery shopping or museum hopping. At the library or the soccer field or the park. Or if we are home, we are tucked up inside, windows closed against the cold air, working away at subtracting fractions or crafting personal narrative essays. And even if we are at home and the windows are open, there is a boy and a girl and a dog and a cat and music and Lego building and someone who sings Jingle Bell Rock every waking moment of her day. So I miss the bells.
But sometimes, there is silence at just the right moment.
At noon, the bells ring every day. They ring every hour, of course, but noon and midnight are the most impressive. Within a few minutes walk, we have a the massive St John's Cathedral, the large and impressive Riverside Church and three or four smaller houses of worship. All with bells.
New York is home to a lot of noises. And a lot of noise. Honks and yells and construction. Doorbells that buzz, busses that rumble, subways that scream and woosh. Noise, noise everywhere. All the time.
So I count myself lucky that above all this, above the noise of the streets and the people and the children that are under the table plotting something this morning, some days, I get to hear the bells.