Open-Palmed ChildI was born with my hands wide open—not balled into fists, not prepared to defend myself, not clinging desperately to warmth. Just two mirrored pink palms, exposed and vulnerable, asking for help, or offering a gift, or awaiting crucifixion. When I was born, I didn’t cry. Rather, I surveyed the room, the nurse, my mother, my father, with a furrowed brow and eyes dark with attention, the way an old hound eyes its master’s guests. Because of my size, I wasn’t born so much as surgically removed. I was a malignant tumor, and I could have killed my mother like the one that killed hers. It took me an uneasy moment to accept her embrace. Why? What did I know of love, or of pain? Could I have imagined that one forever thundered after the flash of the other? Could I have known to fear each equally? When I was born, I didn’t cry. Why would I? I would not meet the discipline of my father’s hand for five years, and it would be two more before I learned to Fear the Lord, and another before I learned the scorn of my peers, and three more before they convinced me to scorn myself. Instead, I shelved my tears. I stored them in a storm shelter, like powdered milk and canned goods that bitter and spoil before the storm arrives and I need them most. |