Hard-of-Hearing
Sept 4 2025
My hard-of-hearing mother
doesn’t notice
the rattles, squeaks, and thumps
that come from somewhere in the car
and endlessly annoy me.
She sits primly
gazing contentedly out the window
as if all this was new;
like a child
opening her eyes to the world.
She’s also hard-of-walking, -sleeping, -moving her bowels.
Hard-of-reaching her toes
to cut the gruesome nails
that are tough as rhino horn.
Thinks slowly, yes
but still ponders hard.
It seems everything’s hard
if you get old enough.
(So if your wish for eternal life
ever comes true
wish for youth as well;
or no matter how desperately you want to end it
you’ll be condemned to live.)
Yet hard as life gets
she has somehow softened.
Smiles more.
Become more generous, forgiving, amenable.
Lets the little stuff slide
or simply forgets it.
Not like I remember her,
the hard stubborn woman
who was firm and fierce
and had a hair-trigger temper
that was often directed my way.
Most of which I inherited.
But even though I miss her formidable intellect
I like this version best.
The tiger mom
has become a little old lady
— her take on lol.
I glance to my right;
hands, clasped neatly in her lap,
the window foggy from her breath,
and the big purse
she lugs everywhere
stowed between her legs.
Still well-dressed
with perfect hair and make-up.
She seems endlessly entertained
by the scenery scrolling by.
And so content
in her self-contained world
she doesn’t hear me speak,
shout
repeat;
too hard of hearing
to let anything disturb
her pleasant reverie.
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