Little gestures

I have thought much lately of our little gestures.

Waiting,

a boy in line hops on one foot, then the other, spins to touch his mother's cheek, and spins again to touch her other;

a man jitters his heel up and down while he waits for the receptionist to call his name;

a woman hugs her knees tightly and watches from the window seat.


Wishing,

a boy rushes to the window and yanks back the drapes;

a man reaches for his cellphone and checks the front display;

a woman leans her back and one bare foot against the door and listens.


Winning,

a boy skips along the sidewalk, pausing to take imaginary swings and make-believe major league wind-ups;

a man lets his head fall back against the chair and brings his fists up to his chest;

a woman touches her hands to her chest and neck, then stretches them up towards the sky.


I finally have decent news from my doctor and a plan for getting back in balance (gesture: swipe hand over forehead and let out strong whistling noise). Some changes to fix a blood deficiency, some therapy to regain some movement and feeling. I aim to reintroduce feelings in my hands and feet with a collection--a menagerie--of things. Like Amelie, I will partake in life's little pleasures--my hand in a sack of lentils, my feet up against a feather, or a light scrape of a stone or glass shard. When my children were babies, I would set them in the kitchen in their car seats and tuck little teasers under their noses and on their tongues and into their curled fingers--a dish of crushed ginger, a spoon of tart lemon juice, a bowl of prickly pine cones. I know how these things are done.