Bottle of Gestures - Handmade Collage

I grew up in a family of laced up New England lexiconographers. In our home, hand gestures were considered something akin to lambchop frills—unnecessary flourishes that distracted from the flavor of well-chosen words. "Don't gesticulate like a peasant Dear," mother scolded. I left home at eighteen full of passionate rhetoric but with hands and arms drained of expression. My lack of physical animation unsettled people. It made dating difficult. When Sheila told me that she couldn't be with someone who couldn't even muster a simple "thumbs up" I knew I had to do something. On the recommendation of an acquaintance, I found an old woman in Slovenia Town who for twenty-seven dollars sold me something labeled "Bottle of Gestures. Each day for two weeks I rubbed upon my arms a potion, white, thick and heady as spoilt yogurt. One day my hands came alive as words rolled off my tongue. No notion was too abstruse that couldn't be made more comprehensible with some lively finger play. Sheila delighted as my hands fluttered around our conversations. I grew extravagant with my gestures, parting and parceling nothing with wild abandon. Today, whether gathering wool or coals I find my hands can express so much more than my words ever could. One may ask if I honestly believe that this transformation was brought about by the dubious home remedy. To which I can only reply with two big thumbs up.