If there was any vision at all in the fortune teller's crystal ball, she would have switched places with me. If she chose not, she would soon find that she had met her equal. Equals, but not for the powers her crystal ball held, but for loving to observe and listen while people talked about themselves.
The gypsy fortune teller was always kind in her gestures. So when I fell, I knew she would reach out her hand to help me back up. I accepted her hand because she offered it to me.
I would have sat quiet, still, patient while listening for the vibration in her soul. The one that told me what she was and why she was here.
I would have explored her eyes, searched their depth, followed the light that guided her, blindly, because she was gifted with a sight I could not see, and I was curious of her grand vision.
I would have stopped, felt for the energy in the space around the area her presence inhabited.
Above all, I would have sat back and let her talk, all the while examining her words, probing, determining what it was she truly believed in, deducing her expression, and determining her cause.
As for my hands, I know the story they would tell her. They own their history, not all pleasant, but I would hope her vision could see passed that into a deeper part of me.
If they could, I would hope that my hands tell a story about being open, not clenched in tight balled fists held tense on either side of my body.
I would hope they would tell a story of helping people, lifting them up, not holding them down.
I would hope they spoke of providing comfort for those who need it, not sorrow or pain.
I would want them to talk of creation, not destruction.
I would want my hands to speak of caring for people, not abusing them.
And most importantly, I would hope they spoke of love not war, of peace, not conflict.
And even if I do not believe in mystic beings, I believe our heart shows in our actions, as in our hands.