by Laurie Paternoster
“The hand is the visible part of the brain.” Immanuel Kant
Mother’s were accomplished, chubby and speckled with marks of age she called honor.
Dad’s were long and lean, fingers once caressed softballs in seven world tournaments.
My teen-aged niece didn’t mean to.
Haley ducked into her bathroom before school; found sprawled, abandoned strap, the needle
resting like an old friend in her lifeless, outstretched hand.
Brother Jim yearned for release.
In lonely hours, he dragged a revolver from underneath his pillow. A solitary tear marked his
cheek before the bullet ripped through his brain.
Our hands were helpless then,
useless appendages hanging limply at our sides.
My son’s stretch over miles of mountains and forested hikes to steady my path.
Vivid fingernails flicker as my daughter’s lure me into carefree adventure.
Pudgy softness of a grandson’s finger explores my face, tracing creases with concern.
My husband’s are scarred and battered, yearning still to create things anew.
My own are practiced, too often writing glowing fictional histories to comfort the mourning,
desperate to find hope in black and white, meaning in color.
The visible part of the brain.
Gazing at my models of aging weariness, I wonder.
Laurie Paternoster is a former reporter for five daily newspapers, including the Denver Post, and an editor for the Denver Business Journal. She holds a Bachelor of Journalism degree from the University of Missouri and will complete a Master of Arts degree in Professional Creative Writing at the University of Denver in 2023. Laurie lives in Cuenca, Ecuador where she writes creative nonfiction, personal essays and poetry, while making time to hike the Andes, rides horses and breathe clean air.