In the sérvice I shared, the passenger beside me was deaf. Baba, up front, turned and used his hands to talk to her. The arms raised and lowered, circled his head, waved, and punched a private puppet show. No sound. & I didn’t speak either. Only later did I wonder if they thought I was eavesdropping. What could I offer with an uncoiled fist and the wound that stared back at me, my Khamsa, a scar raised by exploding glass in flight? I flattened one hand and spread the long narrow fingers. No words, but an eye to ward off evil which it didn’t & had nothing to say. I know. I looked for wisdom but all I saw was the eye, my wound which never flexed with the rippling of a wave or gripping spoon. The scar hardened, the blue in the middle, fleshy. We stared at each other. I rubbed my finger across it to remember how something can sever the line of one’s life and render them silent.