Among the first we learn is good-bye, <br />your tiny wrist between Dad's forefinger <br />and thumb forced to wave bye-bye to Mom, <br />whose hand sails brightly behind a windshield. <br />Then it's done to make us follow: <br />in a crowded mall, a woman waves, "Bye, <br />we're leaving," and her son stands firm <br />sobbing, until at last he runs after her, <br />among shoppers drifting like sharks <br />who must drag their great hulks <br />underwater, even in sleep, or drown. <br /> <br />Living, we cover vast territories; <br />imagine your life drawn on a map-- <br />a scribble on the town where you grew up, <br />each bus trip traced between school <br />and home, or a clean line across the sea <br />to a place you flew once. Think of the time <br />and things we accumulate, all the while growing <br />more conscious of losing and leaving. Aging, <br />our bodies collect wrinkles and scars <br />for each place the world would not give <br />under our weight. Our thoughts get laced <br />with strange aches, sweet as the final chord <br />that hangs in a guitar's blond torso. <br /> <br />Think how a particular ridge of hills <br />from a summer of your childhood grows <br />in significance, or one hour of light-- <br />late afternoon, say, when thick sun flings <br />the shadow of Virginia creeper vines <br />across the wall of a tiny, white room <br />where a girl makes love for the first time. <br />Its leaves tremble like small hands <br />against the screen while she weeps <br />in the arms of her bewildered lover. <br />She's too young to see that as we gather <br />losses, we may also grow in love; <br />as in passion, the body shudders <br />and clutches what it must release.<br /><br />Julia Kasdorf<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/first-gestures/
