My ex Boogie had tan, slender fingers. His fingers were thinner than mine, like the span of a basketball player. Or a pianist who had to stretch the fingers across the ivory keys and sink into a loud harmony within an octave.
I always thought that because of his larger hands, he would take longer to wash his face. I was perplexed why I was always waiting for him. Before a meal. Before we left the apartment. For my turn in the bathroom.
I’d catch a glimpse of him lathering, palm, knuckles, finger tips, and gently into the nails. Bubbles frothed for what seemed like eternity. When he finally turned on the faucet, streams through the tiny piece of flesh between fingers, the crevices of the palm like mini canals emptying out into the sink.
When it was my turn, I zipped into the sink, fumbled with the soap like a football and charged both hands underneath gushing water, splashing all over the bathroom counter, thrashing about until I stumbled out of the bathroom and onto the next thing. The soap would plop onto my hand almost simultaneously as the gushing water. Within seconds, the soap would slide to the drain. Minimal bubbles.
Five years later, my new boo Guero told me a trick. Sing happy birthday once throughout the whole process. And as I hum through this in my head, I think of how grateful I am for G. He paused and made space for my own growth. I realized that I could spend more time on my beautiful hands, some self-love for a hard worker in the community. It could take that one person to hum a secret melody that will embrace me, swing me, twirl me into a bubbling nurture of the hands I use to build everything. A tiny moment of self-fulfillment, repeated several times a day. How necessary of a daily ritual – savoring the blink of a blissful and soothing moment.
Musings from Joe Flynn 