Page 89 of Glass Half Full

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My hand tells a story

No one on this earth but me can speak

And I see it then:

I

Am

Miraculous.”

I raise my palms to the audience, let them see those lines and ridges for themselves, let them look for that same miracle in their own hands. When I continue, my voice is lower, somber, like a judge handing down a sentence it breaks his heart to give.

“But I grow.

I get older.

The lenses my mother put over my eyes

Start to fog and fade.

That man keeps shouting

‘Shut that kid up!’

And I start to listen more.

I make mistakes.

I do things that are the complete opposite of miraculous.

I can’t look at my hands anymore.

I stop waiting for miracles.

I shut that kid up.

Then one day

When I’ve gotten used to keeping my head down

This bolt of light streaks across the sky

And my neck is so stiff I can barely lift it

But I look up.”

I really do look up. Standing on that stage, I look up to the ceiling, and I see more than wires and pipes. I see something brighter than the spotlights shining down on me.

“I look up into her face

And every inch of her skin is a miracle.

The ridge of her nose, the swell of her lips

Her teeth and the spaces between them

The stray hairs always falling against her cheeks

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