Question

When my father came home there was laughter, rollicking rolling daughter. He was strong and
handsome his thick black, wavy hair fell into his black, laughing eyes. When he kissed me, I pushed his
bristled moustache from my tender skin. His hands, thick and squared off at the tips, smelt of the sweet
horschair at the upholstery factory. His fingernails carried the cotton lints he used to stuff satin sofas.
He signed his name, Benjamin, but no one called him that, I called him Daddy Ben, People who
could hearcalled him Benny.
My father, like my mother, was deal. So I grew up living in two world, our private world and the
hearing world outside. I was on intimate terms with silence and the langunge of silence.
My mother was born deaf, and so I though, was my father. Then one day he mentioned that he had
not always been deaf. "You weren't? How did you become deaf? my hands asked. "I was sick, a long
time. Ask Grandma," he replied.
When Grandma Lizzie came to our apartment, I rushed to her demanding an answer. She said,
"Spinal meningitis" and told how my father had been stricken with the disease when he was two. As he
approach school age, his hearing diminished until there was none, not even the memory of sound.
He was a bright child, hut his intelligence was locked awny. Without normal speech at the age
when children begin to play with syllables and sounds, my father was separated from his own wit. His
other senses did become more acute with time. But he never recovered from early verbal neglect, he
could not read a book page by page. The flowing language, line afterline, chapter after chapter, was
too difficult to sustain. Even so. Daddy Ben was undefeated. He transformed pain into humour, "It is
better to laugh at life," he'd say, "It makes easier a hard time."..

summary​ and suitable tittle ​

Answer 1

Answer:

what is this I can't understand please change the question