This hand shoed off the photographer at my 4th birthday party
because I felt shy.
This hand was held while my mother stopped my nosebleed when I had a fight with my best friend at 5.
This hand was held, by my father when they stitched my eyebrow cut open when I enthusiastically ran after my father to fish and fell face down on rocks at 6.
This hand grabbed a tree to hide behind when someone shot at me and my friend walking along a frozen creek at age 7.
This hand held the reins of my first pony I bought with money I saved from mowing lawns at 13.
This hand was held by my partner when he was told I might die while in a coma.
This hand wai’ed the older gentleman crying who sat behind me as appreciation for his fortitude for
being there at a 10–day Vipassana, upon completion.
This hand fell on a nail and provided no feedback as to its state, besides being very colorful.
This hand swept up to the sky in yoga many times in sun salute, trying to make it mimic its mate.
This hand cannot feel anymore and too soon will lay still at my side and burn in my cremation.
Between now and then it is busy, Na?