Chapter 6 - The Language of Hands
The summer heat broke,
and a massive thunderstorm rolled over Manhattan.
Usually,
thunder sent Leo into a state of total catatonia.
The loud cracks would make him scream until he threw up.
I was prepared for the worst.
I had the noise-canceling headphones ready.
I had the blackout curtains drawn.
But Savannah was different.
She opened the window just a crack.
She let the smell of the rain into the room.
"Listen,
Leo,"
she whispered.
"The clouds are just moving furniture."
"They're making room for the sun."
She sat him on the floor and brought out a large,
metal sheet.
She tapped it gently with her fingernails.
It made a sound like soft thunder.
Leo flinched at first,
but then he watched her.
She tapped it again.
Then she handed him a wooden spoon.
"Your turn,"
she said.
I watched from the shadows,
my heart in my throat.
Leo took the spoon.
He looked at the metal sheet.
He looked at the lightning flashing outside.
Then,
he hit it.
Clang.
He hit it again.
Clang. Clang.
He wasn't screaming.
He was laughing.
He was making his own noise to match the world's.
He was communicating with the storm.
I walked into the room,
not as a CEO,
but as a student.
I sat on the floor,
the cold marble cooling my legs.
Savannah handed me a spoon.
"Hit it,
Dad,"
she said,
a small smile on her face.
I hit the sheet.
The three of us sat there in the dark penthouse,
making a rhythmic,
beautiful racket.
The thunder rolled,
and we rolled back.
May you like
In that moment,
the language of hands was louder than any word.
