Left Hand Write

What a map of confusion that leads nowhere. Lines crossing in and out of one another on my tan palm. Digits that are too long for such a short base. "Neverow Fingers" are the definition given by my clan. We all have them. Nails that are too jagged to be considered ladylike top them off. Rings show up occasionally and resemble a polar bear in the Serengeti. No matter how deft or skillful it should be, there always an awkward gesture at work. Perhaps out of nervousness or just plain idleness. There are tiny burns on the back of it. Hot oil from a frying pan before the Tilapia made it in. Another near the wrist from pulling a frittata from the oven too hastily one Father's Day. This hand would write if it didn't lack dexterity. It fumbles mostly. Runs absently over premature frown lines hidden by carefully coiffed bangs. This hand with only the ring finger possessing what could pass for a well shaped fingernail. Peeling polish in Mauve Sunset, but well shaped nonetheless. Slight hairs on the index and middle finger are all but singed off from smoking Marlboro Menthol Lights down to the second green line that dares you to cross it. This hand is falling asleep under a heavy head. A head that rests on the arm of the couch, eyes blankly staring forward. Tingling sets in. I have not moved. This hand, begging wordlessly to run down the side of a kind face. It will come to pass, but not tonight. Tonight when the pins and needles sensation recedes, that same half dead hand will wipe away tears tasted at the corners of a mouth. The right hand steps in...dutifully takes the pen.


Author's Note: This piece was written at Gotham Writers Workshop after being given the following exercise prompt: Examine your less dominant hand and describe what you see while simultaneously writing.