She flipped over Emmy’s hand and uncurled her very tiny pinky, looked up at me until my eyes met hers and she spoke. “See this line right here? The one that is crooked? Look at yours. Yours is straight. It’s not crooked.” And I felt like our traveling at light speed journey with all it’s crazy anxiety and facts swirling in my mind-it all came into perfect clarity in one moment. In one second. When I saw that she possessed something other. Something different than what I gave her. Than what her Daddy gave her. The crooked crease that represented so much more. How had I missed it? I had seen everything else, but I missed this. After all, I knew her best.
I traced it with my finger before they began to measure each section of each digit. I traced it so that it was embedded in my mind, accepting that it was there, not going away, that I couldn’t change it. I was acknowledging the “other” and also the fact that she was very much mine. I kissed the top of her head covered in silky black hair, reveling in the softness of it, how much I loved it. I closed my eyes and breathed in the smell of her. I looked back down, opened up her fist again, took in the crooked crease once more. And again. And once more before I let it go. Clarity. For once in the last 7 months. Painful clarity.
They went about their shuffling and procedure and it all went back to blur. The observations being spoken aloud, like jumbly nonsense spoken underwater. And I kept thinking about her pinky. I saw the crooked line even when I closed my eyes. Clear as the button nose on her face, as obvious as the tear I choked back.