The Regret Wave Brianna Barnes
I try to fingerspell to her “H-I,” all I know and it’s wrong— Her upper lip seizes, a fantastic earthquake on an artificial *Strawberry* chemical gloss I can smell across the room. She flees, sobbing, and her daughter assesses my face: the degree of guilt, extent of confusion, is it enough to exonerate? Will the couch-flowers accept my body as pollen when I melt into them? Daughter discloses, “This is the first time an outsider has tried to talk to her,” and leaves to console what must by now be inconsolable, a personhood reflected after its denial by so many others who regard Deafness as a silence instead of a culture. Pity dispensed unsolicited, else abuse freely given. All I can do is greet this dynamic, note it, remember it. Here is someone else’s pain: Wave a meaningless hello. I should have waved. 41
Published on Jul 31, 2015
The summer issue of Apeiron Review, a Philadelphia-based literary magazine, is ready for you and a glass of your favorite beverage. Cool off...