It was all in her fingers.

The way they held the brush to fill in detailed and careful sketches with life.

The way they leapt agilely through chord progressions

and ivory scales from C to C major.

The way they chopped, diced, and sprinkled to provide nourishment for her family.

they were beautiful.

Different nail polish colors to reflect how her week was going,

always bright, always drawing attention to her fingers.

Her husband would kiss them, her children would grab them

for safety and assurance

because it was her fingers that ran the household.

they were strong.

 

Now.

 

They can’t quite hold the brush the same way

to make those careful, steady strokes

to bring her picture to life.

The song goes unfinished.

Notes can’t be hit fast enough

the       pinky   wont   reach  that     far.

 Her husband does the sprinkling. A new machine can dice because now for her

it’s too dangerous.

Her grandchildren ask her why.

Why can’t you straighten these fingers?

Why does your knuckle go

                                    the wrong way?

She tries to remember the first time,

or even the last time,

that she held something that fit perfectly in her fingers.

She can’t.

 

I think… I think I want to paint my grandmother’s nails.

She no longer does so.

I’ll choose a bright color

for the fingers that ran the household.

And I’ll let her see

they are beautiful.

 

When was the last time you held something

that fit perfectly in your fingers?