Like a typewriter clacking on sheet after sheet of paper
my mind writes its own script for a play I want no part in
I pick up a pen, press it between my thumb and middle fingers, watch as it slots into place in my hand and black ink flows like blood from my blue and silver pen...
I looked at you when I opened my eyes and gave my first cry. I don't remember seeing you, but you were there, two pink bundles of skin, bones and the teeniest nails. You helped me to eat, clutch my mommy's fingers, gave me something to chew on when my first teeth broke through.
Now as I glance down I see years of hard work etched into the creases from hand washing and caring. You helped me through exam after exam scribbling on paper for hour after hour. You are always there for me...
So in 2008 when I wake up after my second brain operation to see my left fingers curled up like a claw. My arm coiled like a spring up to my chest. I lift you with my right hand and gently place you on a pillow on my bed. I ease each finger out and lie them flat. I whisper I will take care of you now.
Like a baby I teach each finger how to hold a spoon so that I can feed myself cereal while steadying the bowl with my working right hand. We progress to holding a flannel and reach up with the help of a nurse, to wipe my swollen face. I grin as we lift the items off my bedside table one by one, laugh when the nurse asks why so my left hand can put them all back again I tell her. I work you hard, we work together to get you moving again. Gripping a zimmer frame was our biggest challenge when I was re-learning to walk. But together we did it. Together my hands and I can overcome anything.
So today as words do a merry go round in my mind I once again turn to you, my precious hands. With all your wrinkles, dry skin and nails I am trying not to nibble; you help me to write out my thoughts. And my mind slows as unhelpful words float by on a cloud...
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