I was a mute for the longest time so I learned to communicate with my hands very early on. This might be misconstrued to be learning sign language. I did have the classes but I just never did get it. Fast forward to the time the spirits let go of my tongue and communication came but at a slow pace.
A peculiar thing occurs occasionally, at my angriest, I’d throw my hands in the air, not to signal giving up but letting all the angry and hurtful words flow through them and into the atmosphere. When sober or sorry, probably after such confrontations, I’d sit with the person, with my palms open, giving room for discourse and reconciliation. No one understood all this. No one asides family knew of my silent past.
Until Muna that is.
“God is with me”
She kept to herself, she was sufficient, she was different. She knew what her name meant and stuck with it.
“God is with me”. She needed no one.
We met at an art exhibition and hit it off shortly after. She spoke little, but a lot could be read from her eyes. It saw everything, felt everything and said everything; the mouth couldn’t compare. The universe has its way of bringing what is meant for you to you. Like two complementary puzzle pieces. We fit.
It was a cool afternoon in July when things heated up quickly, I didn’t expect to get as angry as I did, but I did. I threw my hands in the air as a sudden silence follows, descending in our midst and spreading through the walkway between the stairs and the front door, she pauses in comprehension.
Those eyes.
I could see she was hurt, she comprehends what my gestures meant which had forever been misunderstood. She leaves the walkway to be with herself.
Those eyes.
Evening slowly creeps in to bring the close of the day. I find her sitting on the floor of the parlor, head against the arm of the long sofa, cross legged, facing the lifeless black face of the TV but staring into nothing. She meditated like this.
I sit with her, my presence drawing her back to this earthly realm. She acknowledges me with a slight head turn. We sit quietly for a few minutes, living through the hurt of the past few hours.
Palms open.
She takes them, she looks at me.
Those eyes.
She understands.
The eyes ask if we need to discuss things, calmly.
“We do” the palms gesture, still wrapped in hers.
“Later”.
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