FINGERS

Ten beautiful fingers.
A guitar player.
He lives by those fingers.
Makes them do magic.
I watch in awe as they flex and fly
and pick and strum.
I wonder at the richness
of the sounds that they create.
"This is what I do," he tells me simply.
I sent him to take out the garbage.
In that unfamiliar little room,
the heavy door caught him by surprise
and slammed with force across his hand.
He came back in a quiet panic
and spoke in a voice I had never heard.
"Ice.
Fast."
I saw the fingers tremble.
Watched the pain and fear on his face.
"They're broken," he said.
"I'm finished."
In those first moments, as we rallied into action
and immersed his hand in a bowl of ice,
our hearts were immersed in ice as well.
We experienced the implications,
imagined him without his art.
"I'm finished," he repeated.
I soothed and comforted,
forced us both to believe the best.
"They're not broken," I said.
I wanted to hug him but didn't.
It would have been a sign of defeat.
Finally, like a boat that appears on the horizon
as two shipwreck survivors await,
the expression on his face relaxed.
"It's okay.
I can move them."
The pain lifted.
We treated the cuts.
He held his guitar.
He is whole.
These days, when he takes out the garbage,
we catch each other's eye.


© Ellen Azorin