Fingering Happiness

IT came to me by happenstance, that happiness was roaming my house, ready to be invited inside. I never noticed, I never saw it; it was so thin, veiled in onion peels and laundry marks.

That breezy day, Aunt Bella swam into my mind. Aunty lost all sensation in her legs a number of years ago. Have I lost all of mine too? It occurred to my befuddled brain that yes, while she was hardly moving because she couldn’t feel her feet on the ground, I wasn’t going where I wanted to be headed either, so benumbed was I.

Did I feel the breeze, as it washed past me into my house. Hashem sent it today, to break the sun’s dominance and to caress my cheeks. Happiness was in the weather with which Hashem decorated my days. Sometimes He chose dark grey, and the world took on a cozy, protective gloom. Other days the sun shimmered, exposing each ant making its way between the cracks. Cycles were to be noted; the orchestra of sun, wind, air, stars, and elements all coming together to change the weather of the world.

Did I notice my fingers, how they gripped the orange juice bottle as I poured? They rolled dough into a perfect bun. Did I ever look at my fingers, besides when I admired the stone hugging it? They grip and touch, picking up with a perfect grasp. How do my fingers know to close in on a slippery bar of soap with just the right pressure — not too tight that it shoots, not so loose that it slips? There is beauty in fur, as it slips through combing fingers, and in the hair of my child as I brush it neat. How did I never feel the laundry powder when it dusted me, and the flour so fine? My fingers are happiness, in the sensation of cut nails, of holding a tissue, of a little hand in mine.