I’m typing a poem. I write a line long-hand in the notebook I carry with me so I don’t forget it.
I just realized
I have loud hands.
They amplify my voice.
I came on to my blog site this morning and noticed a post on my feed. You must read this!
When I was a little girl, they held my hands down in tacky glue while I cried.
I’m a lot bigger than them now. Walking down a hall to a meeting, my hand flies out to feel the texture on the wall as I pass by.
“Quiet hands,” I whisper.
My hand falls to my side.
When I was six years old, people who were much bigger than me with loud echoing voices held my hands down in textures that hurt worse than my broken wrist while I cried and begged and pleaded and screamed.
In a classroom of language-impaired kids, the most common phrase is a metaphor.
A student pushes at a piece of paper, flaps their hands, stacks their fingers against their palm, pokes at a pencil, rubs their palms through their hair. It’s silent, until:
Read the whole post here: https://juststimming.wordpress.com/2011/10/05/quiet-hands/
It’s poetry. It’s amazing.