Fingers

Fingers that have not yet learned to hold a pencil are my favorite. More skillful than the balled fists of an infant, but only so.

I love the way they wash my hair in the shower, all palms, like spreading finger paint over my scalp.

And afterwards, when they comb my hair, the brush careens into my dome with each stroke.

In the morning, they dislodge the sleep from the corners of my eyes, one set holds my cheek steady, while the others scrape and poke and pry.

These fingers are always accompanied by a look of determination and heavy mouth breathing which is no longer baby's breath, but only so, and just as sweet.

The not-baby's-breath mixes with my own, while I'm washed and groomed.

I breathe in deeply. I remember that we are primates.

Her eyes look into mine as if to ask: Why are you so tired?

My fingers learned to hold a pencil long ago.