20

Cold Hands
Hannah Bryson-Price

Cigarette smoke swirled in the air of my 
grandparent’s kitchen. Its tiles were worn 
and yellowed. My family’s smiles radiated through
the smoke like headlights shining in a rolling fog.
I braced myself as wisps clung to my lungs. 
The cold seeped in from the window behind me. 
They fused together baring claws to chase 
me away. I wouldn’t let them. 

No frigid hands or toxic breaths would drag 
me from the chair where my feet barely scraped
the floor. I was fixed on fluttering fingers.
Talking hands swept through the air, captivating
my eyes. They were soundless, but oddly loud.
It was strange how those signing hands 
generated so much noise from a person living 
in eternal quiet. 

I felt as though my fingers and palms were too small
to paint the words my family used. I wanted to mimic 
their colors and movements, but the cold trickled
its way to my shy fingers. Across the wooden table
my grandfather slid me a wink followed by the one sign 
I knew. The ring and middle finger folded down
to the palm. “I love you.”