12/90, frequencies

I have come to the conclusion that my ears are set to a different frequency.

My dad and I have a habit of thinking seven other things while you are talking to us. We'll ask you to repeat. We'll try hard to focus, but the next project is still looming in that open brain-space right behind the eyes. I used to blame it all on this inability to pull myself in and bring attention to what my ears were working on.

Granted, my dad lost the hearing in one ear when he was caught near an explosion while he was still working in the factory. He got a hearing aid. He says it makes the crickets that hum in his ears die down, that he can pick up words again, but the background is amplified.

They say that when a mother watches another woman give birth, she can experience sympathy labor pains. She begins to cramp, to pant and swell and lactate. I did not witness or experience the explosion with him, but I'm wondering if, by some genetic symbiosis, by our hugs and fist-bumps, I have taken on the changed frequency of his ears.

I strain to listen, and I know that sometimes this is hard for you to believe. I seem absent, distracted. My mouth is closed tight; I look angry; my eyes look away. This is me concentrating. Now I'm laughing, nodding, "I know"-saying. This is me having no idea what words you're saying.

You went to Meineke--not my Nikki's.

The store has a new display--not a nudist play.

The electrical hum from my computer charger keeps my awake long after prayers and reading and changing my socks and putting facial moisturizer and double-checking my alarm.

I had my watch. I've heard it so much that the pace of my heart has changed. I am set to Fossil time. At least it has a good warranty.