In the sérvice I shared, a passenger was deaf. Baba up front, turned and used his hands to talk
to his daughter. The arms raised and lowered, circled his head, waved and punched
a private puppet show no sound. & I didn’t speak either.
Only later did I wonder if they thought I was eavesdropping. What could I offer with an uncoiled
fist and the wound that stared back at me my Khamsa, a scar raised by exploding glass in flight?
I flattened one hand and spread the long narrow fingers no words, but an eye to ward off evil
which it didn’t & had nothing to say. I know. I looked for wisdom but all I saw
was the eye, my wound which never flexed with the rippling of a wave or gripping a spoon.
The scar hardened, the blue in the middle fleshy. We stared at each other.
I rubbed my finger across it to remember how something can sever the line of one’s life
and render them silent.