My precious little boy,
who brings me pain and joy.
Who shares with me a place.
A different sort of space.
With childish wonder he takes life in.
And in his impish little grin
I see the insect on the ground,
I watch the T.V. with no sound.
I talk to him with my hands,
he looks up and he understands.
He is my son, you see.
His name is Jeremy.
He's not like you and me.
For him the wind blows quietly.
Waves crash in silence on the shore.
There is no slamming of the door.
The popcorn pops soundlessly.
You see, he's not like you and me.
He is my son, my Jeremy.
And he is deaf.
Paulina Bishop--1986
