this morning i pressed my thumb to my phone and for the first time in six weeks it was able to divine my print as it had recorded it a year past. i glanced from my phone to my fingers and for the first time, also in six weeks, my fingers were no longer little swollen puffy sausages taut with fluid and strain. In their place, my grandmother’s fingers stretched under my skin and I followed each bone, hardly masked by the loose flesh folding and molding around them, up, up until the sinewy structures were lost in the gnarled knobs of my knuckles.
i register one more indexical marker of the wear of time, the wear of gravity as one pulls me forward and one down to splinter on the horizon of today as it spills into tomorrow. i resist but not frantically so. i resist but not with implants or hair dies. i resist but not with fraudulent cues of fertility. i resist with making, renovating; i resist with words, humor, walking and dopt talk.
my resistance is subtle, not overly distraught. on the faces of my grand girl friends that lay in my past are deeply etched lines rich with living, gray wisps encircle their crowns with tendrils of strong and delicate histories.
surely i want to be etched with richly lived days and surely i want to be tangled in the wisps of histories embellished with joys and sorrows, but damn, my hands are gnarly and i am still trying to come to terms as i fall further over the edge of time into the butt crack of old.
resistance is futile. (thank you seven of nine).