“Hey, I found the safest place to keep all our tenderness, keep all those bad ideas, keep all our hope / It's here in the smallest bones, the feet and the inner ear / It's such an enormous thing, to walk and to listen.”
-The Weakerthans, My Favourite Chords
When he expressed interest in me, I wanted to see what was inside, aside from blood and veins, capillaries and organs, oxygen and white blood cells. And part of falling in love with him involved falling cranium over calcaneus—head over heels—with his bones.
The flexible bones in his hands are the ones I admire most.
He’s got five fingers on the steering wheel, his other five fingers on my knee, as we drive
past a bakery and through a yellow light in the city. Up ahead, he’ll use his phalanges to point my eyes toward a stone cathedral. He’s volunteered to be my tour guide; he knows this city like the palm of his hand, where those faint lines represent streets that run parallel or intersect.
He doesn’t need a palm reader to know whether we should turn right or turn left. I don’t need a relationship expert newspaper columnist to tell me that he’s the voice behind my heart’s GPS. We don’t need anyone in this town to tell us that the bar on the corner has been shut down. Cheers! We’re on our way to the place that sells gelato instead.
As we walk side by side, his Pumas keeping pace with my Converses, our palms suddenly meet and his fingers collapse tightly against mine. We don't even bother to look up at all the flickering bar lights. I think to myself how particularly fond I am of the bones in his pinky finger. He has used that pinky finger to make me promises that he could keep--promises that have helped our relationship grow. Pinky promises are to
growth as calcium is to his bones, I think, as he orders two scoops of dark chocolate gelato.
Fiction, poetry, and all that good stuff . . .