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*At age 7, I became hearing impaired. Impaired meaning, low-range sounds are near gone to me, while high pitches remain. I have learned to drown out noises I don’t understand, mostly the jumbled noises of traffic and voices so I my focus on my tasks. I remember how things sounds to “normal-range” hearing persons.

Loading groceries from a cart with a screwy wheel after packing the self-dressed and wild looking 4 year old boy and 2 year old girl in the back seat of the ride. Slamming the back hatch of the old, beat up, baby-blue Volvo wagon which runs, seemingly only on sheer luck.  Hearing me say to myself, “The man at the bus stop is yelling at you.”.   Somewhere in the background jumble of the smelly, chaotic noise of near east Main Street, I recoginize the sound of a man shouting and realize it’s me he’s shouting at. Looking over at him with a smile, head shaking and shouting back, “I CAN’T HEAR YOU!”  Cupping his hands over his mouth, howling again.  Once more, I reply, “I CAN’T HEAR YOU!”.  His smile is huge and toothy. He looks so damned happy.  I laugh in response.  Coming away from the bus stop, he stands about 1/2 between our distance of roughly 30 feet, waving both arms and shouting one last time.  “YOU ARE A WONDERFUL MOTHER!”.  Tickled, I fling out my arms in happy salute and yell out in reply, “I’M TRYING! THANK YOU!”.

What does he see?  When does he notice?  What is happening in the intimate, micro-world that exists between me and my children? Recounting the walk from the market door to the car. It is an eerily mild late afternoon for January. Lifting up my face feel the slight, misty rain.  The sky is grey not unlike the hairs of age. The wind playing a song, gentle and sweet making smooth transition to a teasing sting.  Feels good.  The basket with it’s screwy wheel has a mind of it’s own, stubbornly trying to veer left against my pushes to the right. How do I ALWAYS end up with one of these?  Beezy, riding in the complimetary passenger seat, lumpy purse for pillow, sleeps the snuggly, intoxicating siesta only the very young seem able, waking as we approach the wagon.  Loki, mop of unruly curls blowing to and fro, stands and holds onto the back of the cart.  His eyes, sparkling with animated innocence. Excitedly he bids me, “Go faster! Faster!” Trilling sounds of sweetness, giggles and laughter.  Making sure the coast is clear, demands are happily met.  One hand on the bar, one on the groggy baby to absorb the shocks, picking up speed, hopping on for a cheap thrill of my own.  Stopping the cart with Flintstone brakes, feet sliding on the asphalt.  Loki jumps down as Beezy opens her eyes and sits up rubbing the sleep off.  Loki notices and runs to her booted feet, grabs them saying, “Good Morning, Beezy!”.  I repeat his offering.  Lifting Bee from the cart, hugging her close to me, kissing her irristable warm, chubby face and hands while tucking her into the dingy carseat.  The big boy standing at my side taking in the world around him. He spots a bottlecap, picks it up and implores me to look at his treasure.  Shaking off the urge to grab the thing from his wee, grimy fingers and  toss it back so I might wash his hands immediatly. I oblige him. Marveling more at his endless wonder than the cruddy bottlecap. Hand in hand, we make our way to the other side of the car. He hugs me before vaulting through the door in true cowboy fashion and independently seating himself. “I love you, Mommy.”  “I love you, too, Pooper.” “Beezy, too!” the baby insists. “Mommy loves Beezy”, I coo back to her.  Three steps to the back of the car, throwing the bags in.  Hatch shut.  Shouting.  Turning around to face the sound of compliment.

How many times do we kick ourselves around for fucking up?  How often are we looking at others only pointing flaws?  How many times are we willing to share a good word, a compliment?  How willing are we to stop bitching and find a solution to the problems we face as individuals, in relationships, as communities and nations?  The man at the bus stop knows somewhere within himself that in order to make this world a place we can all live in, that it starts with noticing the good things.  He didn’t give up on me. It would have been easy to.  I know somewhere within myself that my fellow beings are worth paying attention to. I didn’t give up on him. I decided against drowning out his calls with the rest of the outside noise. Thank you, kind Sir, whoever you are.  I’ll be looking for you at the bus stop.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must chase Loki, who is running in his underpants on the sidewalk this bright, warm FEBRUARY day. “Loki!  This is a GREAT day to run around outside in your underpants! You’re doing it right!”

Come Together.

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