She can hear. Her parents cannot. But that is not enough of a reason to stop saying "I love you". My imagination percolates with the scenarios of their home. Who taught her to speak? Do they have a phone? Are there other siblings? What kind of shenanigans do they pull on their deaf mom when her back is turned? How does a sad baby get her mother's attention?

You wouldn't know it to look at me, but I am hard of hearing. Fifteen surgeries did a lot to improve my second sense, and as long as you speak into my right ear, I can make out the words. But I have clear memories of being in the auditory dark, and how lonely it felt. 

Many couples have their own version of deafness. There are things one person says that their partner cannot or will not hear. Maybe it is their fault, but then again, maybe not. We can observe someone and leap to the conclusion that they are capable of listening, and any failure to do so is intentional. But we could be wrong. 

Although I was tempted to buy a t shirt that said "I'm not deaf, I'm just ignoring you" for my kids, there is a part of the brain that can block out overwhelming information. Autism and multiple personality disorder are extreme examples, but maybe there are lesser instances in all of us. 

Just yesterday John started to critique an effort I had made for the magnanimous purpose of sparing me a repeat failure, and my ears closed. I made a snippy remark and he got the hint. Stop talking. One time I was fumbling for what to say to a woman whose son had died, and she cut me off. Not listening. 

It makes sense. If someone hands me a box of bricks that is too heavy or still hot from the fire, I shouldn't take it on. When folks close their ears, it might just be because listening hurts too, too much. Maybe we can find a way to communicate in a language that doesn't bring pain.