Table of Eight
She sits at the head of the table: still-
except when she's moving.
And then she's grand...
but precise.
Her hands dice and sweep the air- does she practice?
It's working.
They're captivated.
Some of them.
The one on her left- she fidgets. It's constant. She's easily distracted by her hair, movements around her. Her feet dance. Her chair adjusts itself minutely. You talk. She dances.
And beside her, in perfect stillness, the listener. She's reclined in her chair, eyes heavy-lidded... gaze fixed on the sky. Her hands are folded in seamless lines across her body. She is storing every word.
Next to her, the pretender.
Her eyes on your face.
Her head nodding, sometimes when it's supposed to.
Her laughter somtimestooquick.
s o m e t i m e s t o o s l o w.
Her mind a million miles away.
On the other end of the table- the anchor. The analytic. The one who has words buzzing on the tip of her tongue that she holds back out of some semblance of regard for social etiquette. She will be quiet. She will wait her turn. But when she speaks, you will be
dazzled
by her flash of brilliance.
To her left, the kind one. She can hear your heart. It's evident in her soft eyes, the upturned corner of her mouth, the leaned in shoulders. She wonders at the womb that gave birth to those energetic hands and of the emotion that chokes words past the throat and into the harsh light of day... for anyone to hear. What does it feel like... where you are?
Beside her, the musician. Her body betrays her. Her fingers tap a rhythm on the arm of her chair. She's breathing out a hum of air. Her ears hear music beyond your comprehension. The story you're giving weaves into the tune of her song.
And directly to your right, the striver. On the edge of her seat, shoulders pinched together. I can feel the ache of that muscle. Anxiety etched on every feature. Life is a test, don't you know? She doesn't want to get this wrong.
These women speaking out an hour of their lives... breathing the same air. Confiding every inch of ground they have gained.
I think about the pieces of me in each of them... the parts of me that are the same. The parts of me that God is gently scraping away. The parts of me that are on display for the world to see.
If my actions, more than my words, tell the story of who I am...
what does my story say?
except when she's moving.
And then she's grand...
but precise.
Her hands dice and sweep the air- does she practice?
It's working.
They're captivated.
Some of them.
The one on her left- she fidgets. It's constant. She's easily distracted by her hair, movements around her. Her feet dance. Her chair adjusts itself minutely. You talk. She dances.
And beside her, in perfect stillness, the listener. She's reclined in her chair, eyes heavy-lidded... gaze fixed on the sky. Her hands are folded in seamless lines across her body. She is storing every word.
Next to her, the pretender.
Her eyes on your face.
Her head nodding, sometimes when it's supposed to.
Her laughter somtimestooquick.
s o m e t i m e s t o o s l o w.
Her mind a million miles away.
On the other end of the table- the anchor. The analytic. The one who has words buzzing on the tip of her tongue that she holds back out of some semblance of regard for social etiquette. She will be quiet. She will wait her turn. But when she speaks, you will be
dazzled
by her flash of brilliance.
To her left, the kind one. She can hear your heart. It's evident in her soft eyes, the upturned corner of her mouth, the leaned in shoulders. She wonders at the womb that gave birth to those energetic hands and of the emotion that chokes words past the throat and into the harsh light of day... for anyone to hear. What does it feel like... where you are?
Beside her, the musician. Her body betrays her. Her fingers tap a rhythm on the arm of her chair. She's breathing out a hum of air. Her ears hear music beyond your comprehension. The story you're giving weaves into the tune of her song.
And directly to your right, the striver. On the edge of her seat, shoulders pinched together. I can feel the ache of that muscle. Anxiety etched on every feature. Life is a test, don't you know? She doesn't want to get this wrong.
These women speaking out an hour of their lives... breathing the same air. Confiding every inch of ground they have gained.
I think about the pieces of me in each of them... the parts of me that are the same. The parts of me that God is gently scraping away. The parts of me that are on display for the world to see.
If my actions, more than my words, tell the story of who I am...
what does my story say?
Comments
Post a Comment