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tlers. As he prepared for work, his whistling drifted through our house. In my bedroom, I’d listen to the music floating from the primary bathroom as he splashed aftershave on freshly shaven skin and dressed for the shift ahead. After his passing, that music disappeared from my life. In the years following his death, he would visit me in dreams. I would hear him before my mind’s eye saw him. I could recognize him by the sound of his distinctive gait (made with his long legs and heavy footsteps), but it was the whistling that confirmed his presence before I even saw his face in those dreams.

While I appreciate hearing men whistle a tune (not to be confused by my disgust of the twonote “wolf whistle” historically directed at women in a sexual way), my husband experiences these same sounds as something akin to fingernails scratching the surface of a chalkboard. His misophonia transforms what brings me comfort and joy into something unbearable for him.

So there in the parking lot yesterday, I found myself in a wistful longing for what whistling represents to me — my father, a simpler time, a form of human expression that seems increasingly rare in our world of earbuds and constant noise and distraction.

Perhaps this is why I felt so irritated when my husband complained about the whistling stranger. It wasn’t really about him or his discomfort, but about my own grief — that something as simple as pursed lips and expelled air creating a melody could be both a source of annoyance for someone I love and a treasure I would give anything to experience again.