Walking to my apartment tonight after walking a friend to his car. The magnolia has started blooming; part of me wishes there were more than one, but I'll take it. The tree holds countless pink-dyed eggs. The yolks have been carefully drained giving each blossom the illusion of delicacy; the marks of tiny paint brushes are everywhere and extend beyond each flower -- the precision sharpens everything around the tree, heightening even the details of the air which my fingertips feel.
Among those sharing the subway last night with me were four deaf people. They were signing while their lips were evoking. I watched out of the corner of my eye. The Indian infant was not so bashful, watching with wide eyes, squeals and all. His Indian grandmother and mother also seemed less bashful than me.
How different is their world? How much harder it must be for them to walk up to strangers in a bar and greet them after only one drink. Maybe they need more. Or maybe their differences have helped them cast aside fear and do it without any.
I don't know.
Do they feel more when they see egg-blossoms in the warming spring air?
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment