creative writing

At My Fingertips

Her hands tremble as she traces the spiralling ridges of my fingertips with her delicate fingers. I try to catch her eye but she is avoidant. I pull my hand away and she stares into the space where my palm had been.

“What is it?” I ask, hesitantly.

She gathers herself together, wiping her hands on her robes. She clears her throat, but continues to avoid my gaze.

It then became imminently clear that my palms did not narrate tales of good fortune. No, that look was unequivocal. Only tragedy; a succession of disappointing events lay ahead, steeped in loss, fear, and grief.

It was too late to consider whether there is any truth hidden behind the creases on your hands. Continuing to walk the same paths with the same attitude became a risk. It was from this day that I carried gratitude with me wherever I went.

Gratitude reminds me that beneath the pressure of life lives a dormant element of peace. She had failed to find resilience at my fingertips.

An old post, rejigged for MindLoveMisery’s Fortune Teller Prompt found here

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