My hands are small and at night they look grey and unreal. I am wondering if they are capable of holding anything at all. The saints on the candle flicker and pulsate with vibrant greens, purples and oranges. I realize that it has been a long day, a long week and a long last month. And I realize that the Powerful Hand is not a clenched fist, a pointed finger or a handshake.
True strength comes from an open palm, an offering.
I am wondering if I will have the strength to keep life at my fingertips instead of hiding it beneath tiny, folded fists. I am wondering if I have been trying too hard. The singing figure on the bed grows quiet. He s lying lengthwise on his stomach and he turns his head from one side to the other to avoid getting a headache. Or a sore neck.