To Share and be Recognized

Easy to forget the details of her words, the examples using names I’m not familiar with, the intonation, the grammar mistakes that nipped at my neck in the moment. For the subdued statements to meld together like her downturned eyes, or the focus on the distance. And maybe she was busy, after all we were working, and maybe she was trying to find the right words still translating, from one side of her mind, a language that speaks in a structure so different, in tone, in timing, in shape and order… that she must feel like two different people in one body. But when I apologized for intruding, and with ever bad timing, her face lit up, and her tone changed to assure me.

And he spoke, not so much in open honesty, than in painstaking courage to reveal, that which should not, but why not? between each sentence he wondered. Then tried to find the words to explain and with patience I waited. And reassured, and complimented his bravery, so each time he revealed more, sometimes too eagerly. And each time he offered to guide me,

if need be.

She sits at the front desk, and in-between phone calls - answers my questions. And signs out keys to the renters, and opens doors to allow me, a view of the room in which her family resides, because her sister fell in love, and chose to express it, now they bear a weight as a family collective, made worse by the rumors, and the younger generation defends them, but her mother still wishes they had a patriarch to represent them. And she’s stuck at the front desk, and I think that she hates that, but she’s waiting politely for my next inquest, and sometimes she’s irritated that the phone interrupts with its singing. And I get the impression she doesn’t mind my questions or lingering.

I ask if he meant it, when he invited me to the celebration, and he adamantly responds with another invitation, and I worry about his family, and the other people present, and I worry I will make the worst kind of impression, and I share this, and I’m nervous and I’m worried that he’ll see it as rejection, because he stares at me wondering, and shaking his head just, slightly,

he reminds me, encouragingly that I wouldn’t be intruding, but as always I step back my fear always subdues me, “I’d be way too anxious” I say, dismissing the idea.

And he gestures his disagreement and ever so gently.

Says “but   when you’re anxious, it’s pleasant,

…you just start to smile more.”

and in his knowing gaze, I feel my hardened heart start to warm.

I think back on my days of “research” as a blessing, gift wrapped in timid word choice, hands pocketed, curious brows perched, for understanding. And wonder if my curved cheeks peaked, pink lips wrapped the relaying, and shared in a mutual exchange not often given. Forming a connection through blushing, too human to be sacred, and yet the give-and-take brought new reverberation, like a platonic flirtation, I simply asked, and then listened. And there is something critical there, about giving permission… to share, and be recognized.