The Man with the Flappy Hand – A Poem

If I close my eyes,

I can see a forest made of glass.

When I walk by the fragile trees,

the glass acts like a mirror

showing me pieces of myself

preserved in time and kept like a library

of memories and moments.

I lean in closer to the mirrored glass

and I can hear the voices of those

that my mind has trapped within.

I am drawn to one particular tree

as it holds one shard that shines

brighter than all the rest.

There is a glow being emitted by the shard.

I reach for it and the glass cuts

into my right pointer finger.

The glass flashes red and the scene in the glass

begins to play:

I see myself standing with my cane.

There is a man in front of me.

He’s flapping his hand in my direction,

unable to breathe life into the words

that he wants to use.

Looking at the scene, I realize that the man

is made uncomfortable by the symbol

of the disease I carry inside of myself.

I can hear myself speak, the words sounding as if

they are being uttered from underwater:

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand you. I don’t speak flappy hand.”

I have to strain to hear his reply,

Putting my ear against the glass,

I can feel the shard slice into my skin

and it takes another drop of blood from me.

“How does it feel to be half a man?”

I can see the reaction on my face,

feel the verbal slap reverberate through my body.

I take the shard away from my ear,

watching as the blood makes the glass shine red.

Why have I carried this memory with me

and marked it as more important than the others?

I look at the other memories that I have held on to,

deemed worthy of keeping,

and they are all memories like this one

where someone thought less of me

and told me how I should feel about myself.

Looking at all the trees,

I realize that I have created a library of shame,

for what is a forest but a testament to time

and the passing of knowledge?

I stare at the glass forest and I know

what I have to do.

Reaching down to the ground with both hands,

I take hold of a large glass shard

and I stop to marvel at how beautiful it is,

even as it cuts into the skin of my palms.

The first swing smashes into that memory

and I see the horror on his face

as the man with the flappy hand is smashed into powder,

the tinkling of glass sounding like music

in the air filled with the whisper of wind

that seems to be urging me forward,

encouraging the destruction.

As I shatter mor trees,

more memories of how I used to see myself,

shaped by the perceptions of other people,

the air is filled with a fine sand of glass.

Each scrape along my face is like a kiss from the wind

and every time another tree falls,

it fills the air with the sound of bells.

When I open my eyes,

I look down at myself and it shows the signs of a journey.

My body is covered in blood and my clothes have

ripped in places. Patches of soil have worked themselves

into the fabric. I feel a drop of blood falling across my forehead.

My body is hurt, but my mind and spirit are lighter.

The bells continue to play on in my mind

and the sounds of my footsteps

join the soft hum of the wind

as I make my way forward

into the unknown that

is waiting to be

discovered.