(February 25/08)
I forget her name, on purpose I suppose as I have no right to remember her. I remember her coming down the street, legs shuffling, arms tight to her sides, the hum and buzz of her hearing-box ringing in my ears. The hearing-box was strapped to her chest, belted under her armpits and fastened at the back. There were two long phone-like cords, frayed and browned, coming out of the machine at the front and weaving there way into her ears.
She smiled, a lonely waifish smile, all the time directing her eyes downward at the street, her feet arching and clipping into the asphalt. I wonder what ever happened to her, the girl with no name, the girl we made fun of knowing she couldn’t hear our chuckles and hisses. What wicked boys we were, we who could hear birds chirping and the sky crackling.
Two days before my entry into the world, head butting, feet jimmying, fingers grasping at straws. Perhaps the girl with no name has a husband who adores her and children who love her. Maybe she lives in a big white house with a picket-fence and a beautiful full garden. I live at the top of a house, my ledger full of missed opportunity and poor timing, my hearing fading into a black noiselessness. My hearing-box fits into the cone of my ear, a hissing drone that only birds and crackling skies can hear.
I forget her name, on purpose I suppose as I have no right to remember her. I remember her coming down the street, legs shuffling, arms tight to her sides, the hum and buzz of her hearing-box ringing in my ears. The hearing-box was strapped to her chest, belted under her armpits and fastened at the back. There were two long phone-like cords, frayed and browned, coming out of the machine at the front and weaving there way into her ears.
She smiled, a lonely waifish smile, all the time directing her eyes downward at the street, her feet arching and clipping into the asphalt. I wonder what ever happened to her, the girl with no name, the girl we made fun of knowing she couldn’t hear our chuckles and hisses. What wicked boys we were, we who could hear birds chirping and the sky crackling.
Two days before my entry into the world, head butting, feet jimmying, fingers grasping at straws. Perhaps the girl with no name has a husband who adores her and children who love her. Maybe she lives in a big white house with a picket-fence and a beautiful full garden. I live at the top of a house, my ledger full of missed opportunity and poor timing, my hearing fading into a black noiselessness. My hearing-box fits into the cone of my ear, a hissing drone that only birds and crackling skies can hear.
2 comments:
Superb irony in the concluding line.
Gary
a sadly beautiful piece of prose. just lovely.
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