There is a hill in Bermuda

Very high and steep

With a narrow road from top to bottom

That twists like a preying python.

'Ass Hill' they called it.

And I fully agreed:

You would be a total ass

To negotiate it if you didn't have to

At a mere creep

Praying for reliable brakes

And no traffic from the opposite direction.

 

I called it Ass Hill for years

Without contradiction

Until one day in amiable conversation

A chap, a long-time family friend,

Looked at me queerly and asked,

'What did you say?'

 

'I had to drive up Ass Hill yesterday

And another car was coming down.

What a pinch! I hate that hill!'

His face convulsed

As he struggled not to grin.

'Oh, what an accent you still have!'

He chortled, looking ready to burst.

'Not Ass Hill, Cynthia. S Hill!

S Hill, shaped like an S!'

And he collapsed into laughter.

 

'My accent! What about yours!

You're kidding me, right?'

But he wasn't.

So, finally I knew.

All those years

Maybe people thought I was wise-cracking

And politely allowed me my little joke

Uncouth as it might be.

Bermudians can be gracious

Up-front anyway, like most people.

In my own head I still call it Ass Hill.

Let the implications fall where they may.

 

Cynthia Buell Thomas, January, 2019