I squeeze my left fingers
With my right,
hard,
in my lap.
The left ones smoosh together like they’re being hugged.
Not in comfort.
A forced hug.
A grandma at Christmas hug.
A friend holding you back from a fight hug.
My left fingers turn white.
The blood flow stops.
I don’t notice.
I don’t notice either that my life took a hard left
when you left.
I won’t notice that for a while.
Other people notice.
But only people who have squeezed their own fingers know this.
I haven’t been here.
I don’t know this.
My left pointer nail digs into the side of my ring finger
hard.
The pinky has joined the hug.
I sit in my chair,
bent forward
leg shaking.
Blurred motion hovers to the left,
But there is no noise that I notice.
I don’t cry. I don’t move.
When I raise my eyes to the room
the noise floods in.
Others hug. Others cry.
I lower my head again.
I press my hands over my ears.
My fingers remain white.
I don’t notice.
Right now, it’s just a moment to pass.
Soon, the blood will rush in
to return my finger to pink.
Just a little longer.
Someone said this too shall -
It’s only later, way later - when I am the motion in the background, I am the hugging, I am the crying
and I see someone, sitting alone in a chair, bent forward, legs shaking, hands in lap,
strangling their left fingers hard with their right -
that I remember my own white fingers
all those years ago,
and realize the blood never did rush back in.
Only now do I notice white fingers across rooms
and watch those lives as they veer
hard and to the left.
Piper Bell
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