“Deaf”

                                                                                          by Lisa Boston Frye

 

 

                           “That’s the cat’s dish,”

                           I said to my husband

                           as he brought the bowl

                           and raisin bran

                           to the kitchen table.

 

                           “What,” he asked hopefully

                           an open expression on his face

                           as he turned toward me

                           and away from the refrigerator.

                           A gallon of milk dangled from his two fingers.

 

                           “That’s the cat’s dish,” I dead panned

                           “That’s the cat’s dish,” my son repeated

                            with elaborate expression

                            and enunciation.

                           “That’s the cat’s dish,” we trilled in unison.

 

                           My husband flung his arms out

                           in resignation and with pleading eyes

                           and frustrated voice asked -

                           “Can’t this wait until I’m done eating?”

                           “Whatever,” I said, smiling at my son.