When I was around four years old, I remember being in my room playing and hearing what I assumed was my mom calling my name. It happened on more than one occasion, and the first few times I would go out into the hallway and call back, “Mom?”
Her response was always the same: “I didn’t say anything.”
Since she and I were the only two people living in the house, I suppose I eventually decided I must have been “hearing things.” I didn’t have another explanation for it, and certainly didn’t have any reason to consider that there might be one. After it happened enough times, I simply stopped responding when I heard my name and went on playing.
It’s funny to think about now because I don’t remember being frightened by it or even finding it particularly mysterious. I heard what sounded like my mom calling me, went to see what she wanted, and when she repeatedly told me she hadn’t called me, I eventually learned to ignore it.
It wasn’t until much later, after having other experiences that made me question what we perceive and how we perceive it, that I started thinking about those moments differently.
What was I hearing?
Maybe it was simply my imagination or the way a young child’s mind processes sound. Maybe there is a perfectly ordinary explanation that I’ll never know. Or maybe I was hearing something I didn’t yet have a way to understand.
I don’t know. I just know that I remember hearing my name, and now I have to wonder.
