Deaf

I think I am losing my hearing. Every time Elizabeth talks with her head turned away I can’t make out anything she is saying. I often ask her to speak up, but she tells me she is already talking loud enough for me to hear. On top of that, I have been having a hard time keeping up with instructions from teachers, even when I sit in the front of the class. It scares me so much, especially when I think how life would be without hearing the shower running in the morning, or Elizabeth’s lazy breaths as she sleeps soundly in my arms.

I have taken far too many things for granted in this short span of a life I have lived. I dismiss things like my mother’s voice, my brother singing, half out of tune, and the creak of old wooden stairs almost instantly after experiencing them, even after I feel my hearing slipping away. I try to make those moments stick with me, but no matter how long I linger on the cracked meow of an old housecat, they always slip away, dripping soundlessly through the tips of my fingers and splattering silently on the ground.

Will I simply be a shell without the mastery of all five of my senses? I doubt it. I will continue to live on, but every silent breath and every pantomimed greeting will be just another reminder to the parts of the human equation that I will never be able to share with others. And even if the loss of an entire fifth of my being isn’t enough, fate would even go so far as to rob me of my newborn son’s first scream, his first beautiful word and every other word thereafter. I will never be able to hear Elizabeth’s words of encouragement after a tiresome day at work, nor will I be able to hear her soft moans as she and I share the same fleeting seconds wrapped up in one another.

Yet, even with such cruel taunts, fate has always provided me with an escape route. Without sound, every sunrise can be a beautiful still life painted on the canvas of a dark morning. Without the bustle of city voices, a silent intersection can be a carefully orchestrated scene in which everyone is his own conductor, counting time in blinkers and windshield wipers. And even if fate does decide to take even more away, leaving me with nothing but a sense of taste, won’t Elizabeth’s lips still taste as sweet as a mid-afternoon breeze beside a rushing brook? And even if I am left with no senses at all, won’t the knowledge of a true love coupled with the understood pulse of a heart full of life give even the most meaningless moments meaning?