Hands Twisting

My time is almost up and as it is always the case it is passing by with a blur. But as I walk home every day in a studio haze I now have memories of this place. I walk by the same row of houses that on a cold snowy night a month ago they were only vague shadows against the night white sky, each with a single colorful window a glow; red blue and orange. I am familiar enough with the friendly faces that I can recognize people by the way the walk, knowing who they are even before they smile and come into view. I've even picked up the mannerisms of one kind soul I pass daily. We exchange greetings, sometimes a simple wave, other days it is a hand shake and he stands, head down, lips moving with no sound, hands twisting. I now find myself having my own private conversations, head down, hands twisting chatting away without a sound.