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The Chosen Memory | Nathaniel KwokThere's a memory
that I replay in my head
whenI have nothing
else to think about.
Like picking a scab until
it bleeds.
I remember playing
in my old house
Upstairs in my room,
I wrote on the walls
With permanent ink,
not the erasable kinds like at
School!
That's what we were playing!
I was the teacher
And my cousin was the student.
The blackboard was my pristine
White wall which my dad discovered
Was not quite white anymore
Just slanted rows of wriggly lines.
"Which finger don't you want?"
Now I stand before him
Not in my bedroom but in the kitchen.
His calloused paws grab my arms.
He growls again, more impatient.
"Hold out your hands lemme see them...
now which finger should I cut off?"
I stare at my pudgy piggies
Mentally gauging each one's
usefulness. I think of the pros
and cons as I move back and forth
from my left to my right.
I need my thumb to grab things,
and my pointer is used for well,
pointing.
My middle finger is so long and tall,
so important-looking.
The fourth is the ring finger,
I'll need it when I get married someday.
I was leaning toward my pinky,
because it was so small.
I hardly ever used it,
usually just dangles there.
And then it was down to two
fingers, but which one did I like the
least?
The right hand I use more;
it's my writing hand,
mynosepicking hand.
But my left hand is my catching hand,
I can't play prison ball without it.
I balance on the edge of indecision until,
"Well? I'm waiting!"
pushes me into the chasm of decision,
and I calmly place my hands behind my back,
shaking my head.
I'm grateful today
That I didn't choose a finger
Back then so young ago.
Of course, I know now he
wouldn't have really done it.
But how would my finger have felt
if it was the one chosen?
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