The First Moment



I am not going to tell you the first thing I noticed about her
Because it was the first thing she wanted me to notice,
But it wasn't the first thing I should have noticed.

So I will tell you the first thing I should have noticed,
Which is that she sat with her legs out and crossed at the ankles,
Her fingers interlaced behind her head,
Looking at the trees,
And the way the sun sparkled against the leaves,
And at the gate on the side of the porch,
And the way it hung broken without swinging.
Her gaze came up from her face,
But her eyes looked down.

She understands that in your moment of a look
There is a century of empathy.
She cannot separate your voice from your words.
She cannot separate your fingertips from your whispertrail.

She knows only the heaviness her shoulders complete
And the time it takes to lift her eyelids.
She knows what it means that you look her in the eye.
She takes with her
Not your speech but the fact that you spoke,
Not your grasp but the fact that you touched,
Not your understanding but the fact that you thought,
Not your emotions but the fact that you feel.

She is smaller than you perceive,
Her fingers stretch farther than you imagine,
Her ears her more than you know is there,
And her eyes see the world through a discolored lens.
But one that can be cleaned.

It is your job to clean it.

All of this in the first moment.

24 May 2004