manami's hands

as she left her apartment, manami touched the smooth wooden railing like it was the back of a lover. and as she ate her lunch in the park, she ran her hand through the cool grass like it was the head of a child she was hoping to bear. she stopped in a perfume shop along the way to smell the fragrant mouth of a bottle as if it were on the nape of another's neck. she walked home in silence, her hands in front of her waving at strangers while her eyes studied her feet. she didn't want to fall. she had fallen when she was 9 and broken her jaw - her hands failing to protect her. it took so long to heal. and when she was 13 and he touched her in places that were not ready, her hands hid by her side. she never forgave them for that. and now, too old to crawl on obochan's lap, she curled up in her bed searching for warmth. she studied her hands holding them up to the light squinting at the transparency of illuminated skin. she did not trust them. and as she traced the years of her empty palm she realized how tired she had grown of this battle. "why?" manami whispered to her sashiko quilt. "can't my eyes look where my fingers are pointing? can't my head hear my heart? can't my breath breathe its beating? can't I wave and say 'hello! I want to love you with these hands and everything else that is me'? I am ready," manami said to her hands. "I am ready to fall."