“When people don't understand a child's communication system, they sometimes assume the child is behaving badly or making random movements.”
She paused.
“But Nora was being very clear.”
I stared toward the kitchen table.
My leather vest still hung beside the door.
The broken snap remained unrepaired.
Finally, I spoke.
“June, can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“Where does an old man learn sign language without making a complete fool of himself?”
She laughed.
The sound made me smile.
Then she answered seriously.
“There are local classes and online resources. But it would also help to ask Nora's family which signs she uses, because she combines standard signs with some personalized gestures.”
I nodded.
“That makes sense.”
She hesitated.
Then asked why I wanted to learn.
I looked toward my vest.
“Because I don't want her to have to work that hard to tell me something again.”
For several seconds, June didn't answer.
Then I heard her sniffle.
“That's a good reason.”
She helped me find beginner resources and suggested that I start with everyday communication rather than trying to memorize hundreds of signs immediately.
Hello.
Thank you.
Help.
Water.
Hurt.
Happy.
Sad.
Stop.
Again.
Yes.
No.
And names.
She emphasized that signing was a language with its own structure, not merely a collection of gestures, and that I should learn respectfully from qualified instructors and people who used it.
I appreciated that.
For most of my life, I'd thought being useful meant knowing how to fix engines, carry heavy equipment, or work through physical problems.
Now I was beginning to understand that learning how somebody communicates could matter just as much.
I ordered a beginner book.
Registered for a community class.
And began practicing in my kitchen.
The first evening was a disaster.
My fingers were stiff.
I kept forgetting hand shapes.
And the little drawings in the book looked far simpler than what my hands actually did.
At one point, I tried signing THANK YOU in front of the bathroom mirror.
Then I caught sight of myself.
Six-foot-two.
Nearly three hundred pounds.
Gray beard.
Black motorcycle shirt.
Standing in a bathroom practicing signs with the concentration of a kindergarten student.
I began laughing.
Then, unexpectedly, I started crying.
Because I realized how long it had been since I'd willingly learned something simply to become closer to another person.
Not to make money.
Not to repair a motorcycle.
Not to prove I could do something.
Just to communicate.
I thought about Grace.
She'd spent years telling me that love wasn't always about solving problems.
Sometimes it was about listening.
I'd agreed with her.
Then kept trying to fix everything anyway.