My hands are telling me things lately. They are tired of being cut, scraped, banged up, painted, scrubbed… Most of all they are tired of hurting. The stiff and swollen joints still have to pull, pry, twist and grip in order to survive. My hands talk about pain and its very real presence.
“Pain is like an angry neighbor. He is not moving away anytime soon. He is constantly looking over the fence and his stare, his piercing eyes, can be felt following our every move. Sometimes he scowls, sometimes he kicks the fence, sometimes he gets really confrontational and yells at us. Often he goes back in the house, angry, pouting and sits, but even then we can feel him looking out his window at us, wishing us ill.”
“But he is a neighbor and it’s better to get along than not. we’ve gotten used to him. We know his name, his whereabouts, his nature, and generally how to pacify him. We think we prefer him to others who are nastier, and more deadly. He is OUR pain, like him or not.”