One Hand Clapping

by David Corbly

He’d been clapping like that with his left hand since he lost the other in the oilfield in his early twenties. Just slapped his leg, which made about the same noise as two hands when he wore shorts, which was not often since oilfield workers don’t wear shorts.

Now it was winter, and his thick pants muffled the sound, and he was old, and she was gone, and he was sad because she had been his right hand for over fifty years.

That’s how they met, at an outdoor country music concert where she sat down on the stadium bench next to him, the odd man out since his friends all had dates. It was the same for her.

He’d pat his leg to the music with his one hand, and then slap it when it was time to clap. She’d look at him and smile, and then after a few songs she held up her hand for him to clap with a high five, except they kept clapping together and laughing and looking each other in the eyes more than at the singer and fell more in love with each song. 

Now she was gone, and life was colder, and he sat on the park bench where they always sat and watched kids play.

His little granddaughter ran over and sat next to him and asked if he saw how fast she ran, and he said he did, and she clapped his hand just like his wife used to, and her eyes were the same, and suddenly he was warm all over and still loved.