The Deaf House by Joanne Weber

Author:Joanne Weber
Language: eng, eng
Format: epub
Tags: FAM028000, BIO026000
Publisher: Thistledown Press
Published: 2013-08-31T16:00:00+00:00

At supper, I am wary of Anna. Should I just accept her perfunctory apology, although Murray urges me not to? But I remember the stricken look in her eyes, and think: Maybe she is sorry enough. Perhaps it’s best that I be silent, accept her apology, although I want her to understand me, my deafness, and what it means to be a Deaf mother.

That evening, I scurry alone through the exhaust of cars idling in front of Holy Rosary cathedral. I tell myself: It’s best that I be quiet for now. Let me think on these things further before speaking. Let me see if I need to speak at all. I am afraid. Of my anger, and the remorse afterwards, I mean. The vitriolic words I can hurl out and the remorse afterwards. Murray’s: “You’re so fierce, Joanne. Sometimes you can be so mean. How can you want to leave me and our children?” What is this thing that is so beastly and hateful within me? The capacity to destroy and discard relationships even though I am so alone. I’ve failed to connect with those whom I love. A misshapen creature lives in me. It mocks me: How do you think you can be close to anyone if you always push people away?

But I am at Mass. I should not indulge in imaginary conversation. I stand with the rest of the congregation as the organ begins its drone. Then I hear “My Wild Irish Rose”. I look furtively at my neighbour’s hymnal. I read: “You are the voice of the living God”. But the wild Irish rose song keeps playing in my head and I give up trying to follow along as the priest strides down the aisle during the recessional, I’ve never heard anyone sing it, but I’ve read it in song books, in novels, and once on a crinkled song sheet crackling against a bush after a late night campfire, and I keep hearing the phantom music as I step out into the dark street, lighted by the street lamps and headlights of cars leaving the cathedral. I hear a foot tapping and a young man singing in my head, “my wild Irish rose, the sweetest flower that grows.”

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