GESTURES by Bernice C. Roldan
Someone knocked on the door this morning, and I opened it, still brushing my teeth, automatic as a
robot. I forgot to look through the peephole to see who it was. That's what I do when there are too
many kids singing several o-key lines carolling two weeks before Christmas and banging on the
door as though my house were burning. Or when people on my doorstep badger me into buying the
most amazingly useless household contraptions, or wave IDs and certificates probably crafted
along Recto, asking for money. l'm not proud of it, but sometimes I plunge the room in darkness and
wait by the door for the insistent knocking to stop, a fugitive in my own apartment. So today a gray
Tuesday, I was rendered mute with my mouth full of minty foam. A long-haired girl stood there. Big-
boned, generic black blouse, faded slim- fit jeans, open-toed sandals, the heels of her shoes an
inch high. She could have been my little sister. I watched her hands began tracing the air, her face
coming alive, no longer that of a stranger's. She was speaking in gestures. A deaf-mute. She tried
handing me what seemed to be a white envelope. Empty, I suspected. I stepped back, still brushing
my teeth, the slightest whine 144."Is not working let me go." 1. "I came but you're not there.”
2."Under the tree: childhood dreams 5."Is not working let me go." 3."You stabbed me with your
promises."
escaping my lips. She caught me. Forgetting to look through the peephole, I couldn't act like nobody
was home to give money. It didn't look like she was going away. She raised her eyebrows and
nodded, waving the envelope at me. A sound issued from her throat, almost as if to say, you know
this is good for you. She seemed taller, almost imperious. As though she were my mother bidding
me to come closer because my hair was askew and my shirt wasn't properly tucked. So I took her
envelope and shut the door. Beneath the dining lights glare saw that it wasn't an envelope but a
letter. I scanned it, my gaze carelessly wheeling down the page and catching words: hangdog, deaf-
mute foundation. Grumbling around my toothbrush, I went to my bedroom to fetch a crumpled ten-
peso bill. She was still waiting when I opened the door again. Looking away, her mind someplace
else, I stood there for a moment, waving the letter and my worn bill, feeling silly. I didn't tap her on
the shoulder. I was still a stranger. I wondered what she was thinking. That was when I saw a slight
cloak at raindrops on her shoulders, giving the slightest shimmer to her black blouse when she
moved. I realized she didn't even have an umbrella. She turned seeing me at last. Mutely, I handed
her the money, almost ashamed for not giving more. Now that I think about, it, she could have been
a fake. Maybe she can talk and hear as well as I can. But it doesn't matter. Because at that moment
before I shut my door, I realized we were the same. We said goodbye in her language of gestures.
With her open palms, she touched her chest, as though her fingers wished to find something within
her heart to share with me. I forgot that my toothbrush was dangling from my mouth as my smile
mirrored hers. From her heart, she offered something airy and unseen in her hands and I fumbled to
do the same.