Hands (pt 7)

Mi looked out the window. They could see across the street. From ground level, they would not see the trees from here.

“Good,” Jahan said. “Because other than cutting yourself on your dinner knife, or scraping a knee, none of us should see any more blood for some time.”

The world didn’t work like that. Mi knew it well. Yet Jahan’s hands were no longer wrapped. He was freed from what his hands had to do.

Mi wasn’t the same as them. They had scouted. Now they sat in bed, wondering why everyone still treated them as if they were made of glass.

“Fo should ask the doctor if there is a litter to take me to the ceremony.”

Jahan relaxes. “We’ll both go and get it.”

Mi couldn’t care less about the ceremony.

Freaking hands

For some reason, my hands get cold first.

I find it strange, because when I’m typing my hands are the most active part of me. I would think my feet would get cold first. Especially when I’m not wearing any socks. But no. It is always my fingers, creeping down to the palms of my hands.

It has to do with the weather. Never occurs in the summer. Then again, there is no part of me that likes the summer heat. Yet I suppose I always forget during the summer that when things finally start to cool, my hands will be the first victims of winter.

Gloves that get in the way of my writing? I’m not sure why it slows me down so much.

While I rejoice the cold in many other ways, I must prepare once more to deal with my hands. My hands which for some reason are cold blooded.