Thinking Through My Fingers

Tiny dimpled hands clutching mommy’s finger. Each baby finger counted and kissed with love. Within months those same fingers are clasping toys, waving bye and are used as a way to navigate. Skip a few years, she’s in the park making mud pies, digging till her fingers and nails are covered.  Now she clutches crayons in her fist as she searches for paper. A devoted puppy follows after her, lavished with her pats and hugs.

Mom turns, and when she turns back her baby is a baby no longer. She’s learning to play the clarinet, ebony with silver keys. Her fingers at first fumble to find the right key to press. Turn again and her fingers fly over the slender instrument, and a lovely tune echoes through her home.

In home economics, scissors guided by her moving fingers cut material following a pattern. She moves the material through the sewing machine. Later she threads a needle and does the finishing work with nimble fingers, creating a pretty blouse.

That summer she digs again in the dirt and plants seeds with her parents. She wields the hoe, taking care to keep the rows straight and clean. The vegetables grow and ripen, plucked with her fingers at just the right time. It is a family practice to can and freeze together as a clan.

He courted her, and after a time proposes. She comes home from college sporting an engagement ring on her finger. Her hands are busy now setting up a home of her own. Her children are born. She counts and kisses those baby fingers as her mother had so many years before.

She loves and cares for her parents as they age. Her hands are never still, taking care of their needs, until the inevitable happens.

The circle of life continues. She has grandchildren whose dimpled hands are so precious to her. They learn from her how to use their fingers for good.




Now she is old. When she sees her hands folded in her lap, they are so much as her mother’s hands were. Her hands now are on a key board where fingers still fly across keys. No music comes, but she pours out her life, her experiences, her faith, her love in a blog.







Writing, to me, is simply thinking through my fingers.

Isaac Asimov



29 thoughts on “Thinking Through My Fingers

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  3. Your hands in the image… This poem lovely, just lovely. Isn’t it wonderful to finally gain an exceptance of the circle of life?
    ‘Her fingers at first fumble to find the right key to press’. I particularly like that line; it’s so visual, and feels delicious to vocalise..

    Liked by 1 person

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