gathers with pizzas and salads
around a Me & Ed’s table.
We are six women, eighteen to eighty.
Retired teachers, home caregiver,
police officer, dog-sitter, accounting clerk,
we practice signs for weather:
clouds, wind, thunder, lightning.
We watch our teacher sign rain:
hands raised, palms down,
all fingers spread,
then let hands fall
like sheets of rain
flooding chaos into our lives,
into stories we share
between lessons.
We tell of botched surgeries,
car accidents, autistic children,
adopting drug-addicted babies.
Sometimes we forget to take bites,
our eyes widened
toward each new friend,
learning how we survived,
how we now thrive,
why we can sign
with one forearm
rising in a half arch,
meaning
rainbow.
--Jennifer F., Adult