Two hands, the sleeves of a pink shirt rolled up, came in over the shrub. The left hand wraps around a light blue handle, and the index finger of the right hand presses lightly on the branch about to be cut. A silver watch on the right wrist bounces the sunlight back once.
Judging by how only the front sides of the leaves shine white, the sun is quite high. All the green behind has blurred out, and the only distinct thing is one small leaf caught at the tip of the blade.
While looking into the photograph, the shoulders come down a little. The breath lengthens by the length of choosing a single branch. Only then do you notice that the force is gathered in the thumb and index finger alone, and that the other eight fingers are at rest.
The focus of the eyes, too, sweeps over the whole shrub and then narrows to one leaf. The soles of the feet stay still, in the same stance that stepped onto the soil.
Haste comes from trying to look at several places at once, and in this frame there is only one place to look.
Today, pick one leaf from the pot by the window or at the edge of the desk. With a dry cloth or with a bare fingertip, push the dust on the front side outward. Even following the feel of the veins catching on your fingerprint takes less than three minutes.
A hand that touches only one spot, like the index finger in the photograph, is enough. If you have no pot, wiping a hand's width of the window frame's corner comes to the same thing.
You can also move this touch to the last plate of the washing up. While you rinse off the suds and run once around the rim, look at how much force has gone into your jaw. Around the time the water turns lukewarm, you also find out whether your shoulders have risen toward your ears. There is no need to wait for something to change, only to look at what state it is in.
The shrub is still green all over, and only the one leaf a hand touched is a little brighter.
