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A personal essay that could be considered touching on many levels.


Everything you've done, I can blame on your fingers to some extent. In sixth grade, as I sat in typing class, first learning to master a keyboard, you sat next to me, typing with your fingers I had never met. We would type away, unable to see our fingers as we rolled our eyes and made snarky jokes about life, classmates and the godawful teacher barking letters at us to place on our screens. This first time witnessing your fingers led to you becoming my best friend; I would look forward to that class, not that there was much else to look forward to in the sixth grade.

These fingers slowly became the same fingers that would stay up late texting me on my flip phone, making fun of my ever-changing text signature. Fingers that never seemed to let a conversation die, even when there was nothing else to talk about. Fingers that I began to trust and find part of my heart in.

As time passed and life got harder, your fingers showed up even more, talking me out of my darkest times, sharing your darkest times, and naturally learning the idiosyncrasies of how each other's fingers typed and communicated– making these habits our own. Fingers that congratulated me on small accomplishments and asked me everything there was to know about my inner world.

The bond your fingers created between us became unbreakable. Messaging me every day, asking how classes went, inquiring about my plans after school and sending bouts of encouragement throughout the day. Fingers that would hand me your school paper and ask my fingers the favor of editing and refining your work. Fingers that worked better together and trusted each other to depths I'd never known.

The older we got, the more our fingers had to work to maintain a bond. Your fingers would grace your steering wheel as you pulled into my driveway, fingers that always opened the door and swiped your credit card wherever we went. Fingers that moved each bite of your meal to your mouth as we would cackle obnoxiously in whatever establishment was doomed to have us as customers.

Your fingers were always there to help me out or make me laugh, to play with every pet I'd ever owned and rise to flip me off when I made a sarcastic joke. Fingers that assembled my furniture, fixed my computer and cooked me food.

No matter how far apart, your fingers never stopped working to maintain our friendship. Texting, SnapChatting or calling daily, driving ridiculous times to see me for just an hour. I grew to recognize your fingers as my favorite thing about you. Fingers that could simultaneously pick up the phone and start your car immediately when you knew I was in a bad place. Fingers that drug me out of bed when I couldn't envision living another day, fingers that would lay lifeless on my mattress when I couldn't sleep alone.

Your fingers never disappeared when I asked more of them. They showed up whenever I was tasked with moving or cleaning things which utterly disgusted me. Fingers that could fix the dent in my car after my fingers failed to help me avoid a car crash. Fingers that would pick up my slack and remind me that it was okay.

As nature would have it, your fingers became more. Fingers that were admitting feelings in your brain I was oblivious to, fingers that interlaced in mine, fingers that I could call my own. Fingers that would run through my hair and offer a sense of comfort when placed around my shoulder. Although your fingers were much stronger than mine, I knew they would never hurt me. They're the same fingers that let things go gracefully and were right there waiting when mine couldn't resist texting you a second longer.

Immediately your fingers returned to work, building back a cracked bond, mailing me birthday cards, hanging my hammock and sending me every true crime meme you could find online. Fingers that apologized, forgave and understood. Fingers I thought would never work against me or let mine slip away.

Your fingers were absent during my latest move, to a fault only of my own. Your fingers were kind and acknowledged boundaries; they would always back off when it was time to, without a fight. It felt wrong to be doing so many things without them, re-assembling a television stand yours had once tackled, learning to hang nails in my wall and gripping into blankets during stressful times when yours weren't there.

Of course, they returned again, familiar with the routine of going into hiding when I found somebody else's fingers to cherish and rely on. Fingers that could pick right back up as if they had talked to me yesterday, fingers I never felt unfamiliar with after years of not seeing them.

Your fingers were back to keeping me company, doing my heavy lifting and selecting places for us to eat or movies to watch. Fingers that would lay in my bed again, but this time just as friends. Fingers that I had back in the same way I initially found them.

Everything about what your fingers were doing was perfect, the friendship they maintained, the favors they would do, and the laughter they could ensue by trying on rings that belonged to mine. Fingers that would fight for the blankets at night because mine became cold; and eventually began to carry in their own blanket, allowing mine to exist as they were.

I wish I knew what happened. If your fingers were tired of the work they were doing, sick of my shit or simply dying for more. These fingers I once trusted with my life and relied on so heavily for companionship and joy quickly became why I wished I could wrap mine around my neck and end it all. Fingers that had forgotten their boundaries and slipped into places they never belonged when my fingers were incapable of stopping them.

Fingers that once held me and fought for me made a turn and betrayed me in ways nobody thought they would dare to. Fingers that I wish I could snap one by one, take my time slowly cutting off of your hand or tossing in a blender. Fingers that I will never know again and suddenly had nothing to say when faced with the reality they caused.

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