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My Pointer Finger
All the parts of me count for something, are useful for something
It found my mother’s face first, when my pointer finger was more hand than finger, more foreign connection than mine. It was probably the one on my right hand. I don’t know the first time I pointed it at anyone, but I know some things it used to trace. The satin around my blankets, the tip of my nose, our cats.
It knows many men’s jaw bones now. Has been the single remaining finger when I reach their chins, tuck it underneath their tongues, pull them closer to me by their gums.
My pointer finger has gone into my own mouth when I am on my stomach, has had someone else’s next to it there, too. I have thought how childlike even though nothing else about it was.
My pointer finger has pointed at lines on pages while I taught children to read. I told them to follow it. Sound out that word. You’re doing well. It tapped letters. It tapped characters’ faces and asked how they seem. Yes, but how do you know they’re sad?
My pointer finger folded with my other fingers, onto my lap, to show children how they should sit when they hear a story. How to show they’re really listening, all folded and quiet and unmoving, the exact opposite of being a child.
