Small Gestures Matter

at the Cancer Center

At the oncologist today, in the quiet geography of waiting,
an older white couple—early eighties, I’d guess—stood check out
at the appoint desk, speaking Rev. Jesse Jackson’s name into the air like a question.

“Wasn’t he with Dr. King,” the husband asked,
“when he was assassinated?”

The young Black clerk did not know.
History had slipped her bookmark.

Cue me. From across the lobby.

“Yes,” I said. “He was at the Lorraine Motel in Memphis.”

They turned toward me. Both nodded, receiving the fact
as if it were something fragile, a gift.

The man had a twinkle in his eye, the kind that comes from having lived long enough
to remember where you were when the world broke. He looked straight at me and said,
“That moment was pure evil.” We held eye contact. Two witnesses across time.

His wife lifted her hand—a Black Power fist—small, steady, unmistakable.

Not imitation. Recognition.

I was not mad. It made my day.

That’s all I came to say. Small gestures matter. Clock them and Bloom Anyhow!

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