Let’s face it, no one in my eighty-seven years has ever listened to me. And now I’m in an old people’s home and everyone talks and talks and talks like someone might be listening. Either that or they never talk at all; like they’ve been struck mute.
Maybe they don’t talk because they’ve got no grandkids or great-grandkids like most have. And those with grandkids talk and talk and talk about them like they’re the only ones that have them. Like their descendants are the most intelligent things born since some remote ancestor in Africa picked up a cracked stone to sharpen the point of a stick.
I don’t talk much about my eleven grandkids and their couple of kids because no one listens. I talk about them though if I’m sitting in the corner with Fred. Fred always listens. He appreciates it. I tell him everything about my grandkids and he never grows tired of it. He agrees with everything I say.
Poor Fred. He’s totally deaf and he’s got some muscular complaint that means he nods positively at everything I say.