I remember the feeling of his hand on my elbow as we crossed the avenue. He was gentle in his manner, knowing that I did not need to be led. Instead, it felt more sentimental, delicate, and sure. The beginning of a conversation.
We passed by a pile of stones, and I felt myself move toward them. He was speaking, but I couldn't hear him, focused on the stones. All I wanted was to touch them. To know them, and hold their smoothness in my hands. I wanted to taste them, and I imagined myself stuffing them into my mouth with a fever while he spoke. And I smiled at this because it was a soothing distraction. The matter of a rock I could understand, but not this sense of intimacy between us.
I thought I'd like to tell him things. But I will have to be comfortable knowing that I cannot. Instead, I will write it all down in a book someday with hopes he will find it, and see it, and know that he taught me how to say something was beautiful without a sound.