People talking without speaking

I sent a poem to my mother the other day. She said she cried when she read it, as she felt someone finally understood what she experienced.

My mother, you see, has been partially deaf most of her life.


Going Deaf

No matter how she tilts her head to hear
she sees the irritation in their eyes.
She knows how they can read a small rejection,
a little judgment, in every What did you say?
So now she doesn't say What? or Come again?
She lets the syllables settle, hoping they form
some sort of shape that she might recognize.
When they don't, she smiles with everyone else,
and then whoever was talking turns to her
and says, "Break wooden coffee, don't you know?"
She pulls all she can focus into the face
to know if she ought to nod or shake her head.
In that long space her brain talks to itself.
The person may turn away as an act of mercy,
leaving her there in a room full of understanding
with nothing to cover her, neither sound nor silence.

copyright (c)1995 by Miller Williams



As I've begun to lose my own hearing, I can somewhat relate to the poem as well. I told my mother, it's a shame poetry does not have a wider audience. I think this poem would inform many people who regularly communicate (or try to) with those who struggle to hear. Maybe posting it here will in a small way help.