Fingers

Hello? Are you waving at your daughter as she climbs up those school bus stairs for the first time? Are you writing to your father who went somewhere in a green uniform, and now they say that he has become one of the stars in the constellation?

You're sure that they deliver letters in the Big Dipper, aren't you? I know you are because you keep drumming your fingers on the sidewall while staring at the sky, humming something from older times. Are you composing something because you just witnessed the wedding of the girl you imagined your life with, with another girl who stole her heart better than you did?

You do believe Beethoven understands you better because you trace the notations across the page with those fingers. Are you holding the last letter that your child drew on a spare bit of paper before the bullet took his life? Oh wait, are you the one whose index finger pulled that trigger? 

Fingers. They are the extensions of our palms so that we can hold on stronger to things/people, and let go of them gracefully. They define dances that no other organ has the ability to do. They pull triggers and they make art. They are as diverse as we can make them. They caress the one you care for but often strangle the one you love. They hide your tears as the head hangs low. They hover over the screen, confused, as the head and the heart argue over the message to be sent or not. They tickle the newborn just to hear the laughter and witness a wonder creation loving the world as it is. It types furiously when you have that presentation that needs to be done before 9 am. It expresses thoughts, feelings, miseries, nursery rhymes, anger, obscene love, love, and a deeper basket of so many others that the world couldn't have even imagined in their absence.