Default avatar C.M.

1 min.


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by Default avatar C.M. 1 min.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

I looked up for the first time in the half-hour or so that I spent staring at my palms, mesmerized by the multitude of scattered lines crisscrossing on them, like cobwebs.

These were the kinds of palms that I understood only belonged to old people. Palms filled with lines as if the actual skin was sketched. Lines like crude tally marks of the years gone by. My palms were nothing like the smooth pristine ones of children, those with only two or three beautifully distinct lines. Those clean tabula rasas, blank canvasses ready to capture the stories of life.

“Mom, why are my palms like this?” I asked in response, holding them up for her to see.

She let out a long sigh, sat down beside me and took out a pen from her bag. She uncapped it and took my right palm in her hand. She began to trace several lines, slowly, thoughtfully. It tickled a bit.

I watched her pen move, confused, waiting for an answer.

“There” she said. I looked at my palm.

She had traced stars all over.

“Your palms, your hands, hold the wisdom of the stars. So use them wisely.”

I smiled at her, meekly, thinking it was just a grown-up’s way of making a child feel better by saying such whimsical lines.

But over the years I realized, she was right.

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