Snapshots

Only Human

Humans sing when they think no one can hear them and immediately stop and blush when they realize another human was listening the whole time. They call certain plants flowers and others weeds, and then spend hours picking dandelion after dandelion and carefully twisting each squeaky green stem around another until it forms a crown. They show affection by giving each other hand-picked flowers and sweet-tasting foods and folded pieces of paper with kind words that will last forever, and they greet each other by wrapping their limbs around one another and holding them close, taking the time to simply feel the other's presence.

Humans' eyes produce dewdrops when they miss another human, and they collect the droplets on soft paper while listening to other humans sing about also missing humans. Sometimes humans console each other with gentle touches, warm drinks, and hopeful words, and other times they console each other by staying nearby, offering blankets, and saying nothing. They take time to let out all the dewdrops, listen to all the music, sip on all the drinks, until one day they decide to go outside and feel the sunrays caress their skin and they start singing a song they know about dancing and they see a dog they want to touch, and they remember the hopeful words the other human had been telling them, or they think of hopeful words on their own, and they finally smile because they believe the hopeful words a little bit more than they did before.

Humans get hot when something doesn't happen the way they wanted it to. Their voice gets a little louder, muscles a little tighter, movements a little hastier. They release short, quick breaths through their nose, and their eyebrows move closer to their eyes. Sometimes they make their voice as loud as they can and say unkind words to another human. They throw nearby objects in the first direction they think of and strike the ground with their feet and squeeze their fingers shakily into their palms before leaving, shutting the door behind them so harshly it bangs into the doorframe and rattles the window. After spending some time alone, they begin to think that maybe it's okay when something doesn't happen the way they wanted it to, and they wish they hadn't spoken so loudly and unkindly, wish they hadn't thrown things, wish they hadn't closed the door so hard, and they seek out the other human just so they can tell them so.

Humans are quiet in the dark, listening intently for something they're sure is hidden somewhere inside it. They walk using only their toes and keep their hands close to their body and wish a human they knew was with them. They lay down on a soft pillow and rest their head on a smaller, softer pillow and cover their body with a blanket, not just to stay warm, but also to protect themselves from whatever might be in the dark. They think of a hundred bad things that might happen but never will. Their heart beats faster with every noise, their skin becomes damp and cold, their hands shake uncontrollably. They press their knees to their chest and pull their blanket to cover their head until, at last, they remember something they can do that might help them sleep, and they leave their blanket and switch on a small, blue light near the door before returning to their blanket. The darkness is still there, but not as much. Their heartbeat slows. Their hands stop shaking. And they stop thinking about bad things that won't happen.