A Short Piece of Prose

One of my classes (my least favorite- Foundations of Literacy) is what's called a blended learning course.  Half of the time, we meet actually in a classroom and the other half of the time we complete online learning modules instead of going to class.  This week's topic is writing.  I was working on my module and got to a point in the lesson where the instructions were to simply write.  "Take the next 20 minutes and write. It can be a poem, a letter, or an essay--the style and topic do not matter. Write about something that is important to you."  

The following is the product of that experience.

Your Arms

            Your arms are not like other people’s arms.  Other arms are all skin and elbows and hair.  Some of them are skinny, and some of them are flappy like mine.  Some of them are big and bulging.  But none of them are like yours.  Yours are covered with strength and support.  The muscles inside of them are made of warmth and comfort.  They’re prickly with love instead of hair.  Other arms wrap you up with hugs and shoulders.  Your arms make a home where I am always welcome and can feel the joyful sensation of belonging.  Your arms are attached to your hands.  Just like your arms, your hands are not like other people’s hands either.  Other people’s hands can be dry and scratchy like when you’re washed them too much.  Other’s people’s hands can be slippery and hard to hold on to like they’ve just bathed them in oil.  Other’s people’s hands can be grabby, always searching for something to snatch up and cling to.  Other’s people’s hands can be shy, never actually touching yours but wishing they could and wanting you to make the first move.  Other people’s hands can hurt.  They form fists and slaps and pointing fingers, their only intention to bring pain and take away pleasure.  But your hands don’t do that.  Your hands are not perfect in appearance, but in them is the fulfillment of perfection.  Your hands are always inviting, waiting for me to accept your invitation.  You have taken my hand in your many times, but never forced me to keep holding on.  But I have.  I’ve held on so many times through the bad and the ugly.  I’ve tried to hold on, despite the messages of the world and the thoughts that try to penetrate my faith.  Why are you still holding on?  Why don’t you just let go?  Why don’t you just do what you know will bring results?  Why do you dare to think that there’s something better for you?  These thoughts are hard sometimes and it takes me a while to push them away.  While they’re in my mind, I can’t move forward, but you’re patient with me.  You know that it’s hard for me, because you’ve done it before.  Fighting past the thoughts, I can continue to endure and press forward with you leading me on.  Your imperfectly perfect hands and arms are not the only parts of you.  My favorite is your eyes.  I don’t know what color they are.  Maybe blue like mine?  Probably brown; the same kind of brown that just makes you feel close and warm.  But even if they’re not really brown, I do know one thing I’ll find in them: love.  When one day I can see your face again and look into your eyes as you look into mine, I’ll see your excitement that I kept holding on, even though it was hard.  I’ll see your joy from all the times I didn’t falter and none of the disappointment for the times I did.  I’ll see your love that has been there for me all along and that has made me feel important, even when no one else said I was.  I’ll feel the home of your embrace, celebrating the light that envelopes me, never again to leave.

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