He had no ears, but he was happy. He couldn't read sign language, he couldn't read lips, and he was deaf as a tree, but he was happy. It seemed to be his natural disposition.
He lived alone. He didn't mind. He ate, he drank, he slept. He had no TV, he had no radio. But he had a thousand picture books, and a room full of paints.
He rarely left the house. Not that he was aloof. But he had a mirror. He know what he looked like. And when he saw those people with those funny-looking things on the sides of their heads, he had to try really hard not to laugh.
Laughing might make them feel bad. But their deformity didn't bother him too much. And they gave him food, and picture books, and lots of paints.
And they moved their lips at him. Strange habit, but they all did it.
The silence that pervaded his life gave him much time for reflection. And he thought a lot. He thought about the blue of the sky, the green of the grass, and the shape of his thumbnail.
He had never heard of such things as war, or hate, or religion. He was at peace.
Sometimes he would go flying, or walk across the lake, or swim through the garden. He could do these things. No one ever told him he couldn't.
He ate meat, but wouldn't kill an animal. He watered the weeds with the flowers, and put both in the vase on the mantel. He cleaned the mantel. He cleaned the house slowly and didn't know what a vacuum was.
He lived that way his entire life and when he died no one defended him, no one questioned him. He had but one short epitaph: "He had no ears, but he was happy."