Fingers To Love

‘Perfect.’ He knew just the right words to say. He always had. ‘May I?’ he asked as he held out his hand. Reluctantly she handed it over to him. She fought to release it. He had as much right as she did. It was as special to him as it was to her. She watched as a huge tear trailed down his cheek. It dropped onto the material. Joined her own as the stain spread wider. ‘Perfect,’ he pronounced with finality. ‘Just like her, just like you.’ He brushed a soft kiss to the top of her head. ‘We have to go. Everyone is waiting.’ She shook her head. She wanted to fight it. Wanted to plug the time hole in that hour glass. Wanted to stop the sands of time itself. Too many stitches of life had been ripped out before their time. Nana. And now this. No one should have to bury their baby girl. No mother should lose her child. No child should die. Before she even had a chance to live. Her ‘good girl’ that was gone before she even began. She took the tiny dress from her husband. A few more tears. Sometimes they bring along another slave or two. Sometimes ‘other livestock’, which sounds peculiar to me when I hear it expressed that way. He says it is that way, ‘other livestock’, and that it is dangerous for them to take them. More questions. I learn a more horrible truth; slaves are simply livestock, working livestock. The stories at the cabin with mother become more graphic, but I ask to hear them over and over. To me they are life lessons as valuable as the wilderness survival lessons my father has given me. And, of course, it finally comes out who my father was, what he had done. But, mother is quick to also recount the story of his family being killed, that anyone can lose their perspective with such a loss. I learn that everyone has a past. Sometimes that past isn’t what we may be the proudest of, but the really important thing is what we do with the rest of our lives. And a girl couldn’t possibly have a better father for herself or a partner for her.
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