Once upon a time, long before the malevolent Covid had devastated the land, a gentle girl sweetly asked her grandpa if he would please buy a fake hand for her. A startling request to him, especially considering that she already had two perfectly good real ones. The odd request was made between the aisles, in Michael’s art supplies section, where grandpa is particularly vulnerable to these entreaties.
She quickly secured the prize, as she was pretty sure she would be able, based on previous experience. She played with the flexible hand all the way home, coyly freaking out some surprised motorists, though modestly refraining from twisting the fingers into any gross misdemeanors. Grandpa figured he’d never see the wooden-jointed figure again, but, oh well, the grin on her face was worth it. Impulse purchase.
A long cold winter and endless hours of aloneness intervened, interspersed with rare and protected visits. A dark time, indeed.
But today, without warning, the fake hand reappeared In a modest sketch presented in a text. Wonderful! She’s almost 15 now, and I know you’re tired of me bragging about how talented she is, but please indulge an old grandpa in his dotage, and admire the work of this talented child, who gives a needed break from the tedium and hopes for a future that shows so much promise.
I will stop now.
