A Love Letter to my Fingers
Thank you, my beautiful ones
My beautiful fingers,
It’s 5.30 pm. You’re helping me scoop up peanuts with one hand while holding a piece of an apple in the other. You move all the way up from the table to my mouth, as I take a few bites of my evening snack.
We aren’t done yet, though. My mind wants some dessert and you happily hold a spoon that I dip into a jar of honey. I scoop up a few drops of honey, and you feed it to my lips, mouth, and mind.
Later, I sit down, place you on my thighs and touch you. Look at you. Smell you. Feel you.
You, my beautiful fingers. You’ve borne witness to so much in these forty-four years of our life on earth. I go back to times when I was six or seven years old and reminisce about how you were held by my mother’s hands as she took me to the local park. The moment she’d let go of you, I’d run around, and she’d have to keep up with me, making sure I was safe.
You pulled on my father’s cheeks, often gently slapping him, only to watch him laugh out loud and hug me. Did you like the touch of my father’s skin? Did you feel comforted when he’d hold you as we sat on his bicycle and went for rides?
When we visited my grandparents’ home, you touched their feet, seeking their blessings and love. Do you…
