My gender is the twelve chimes of a venerable and lovingly-maintained clock on a seasoned solicitor’s shelf, resonating through brass and wood, a reminder on an August afternoon to rest for a moment.
My gender is the subtle oscillation of a phone face-down on a table, showing a message from a friend who will be able to join you for brunch after all.
My gender is the clank and thump of a letterbox through which a small but long-awaited parcel has just been pressed.
My gender is the thing noticed, but it is not the subject of the notice.
It is the reminder of something pleasant which might otherwise slip your mind.
It is the herald of a something hoped-for now coming to pass.
It is the cusp of something looked-for now becoming real.
It is the wave, but it is not the water.
It is the glint, but it is not the glass.
And it is me. But I am not it.