Written In My Palm
As if bound to commemorate Palm Sunday, with my right hand's pinky sustaining a fracture, my palm swelled passing more like a palm leaf than a hand. With my arm serving to be its trunk seemingly rooted, I can’t comfortably move nor do much with it. Its orthopedic cast can’t even be soaked thus moving about involving water (taking a bath most particularly) makes it like an initial atonement for the Holy Week. My fracture is nothing compared to being crucified and all though; and it’s not like it will redeem the world. Making it uneasy are the itch I can’t scratch, holding some things with just three fingers, brushing my teeth with my left hand and wanting to be helpful still, I volunteered to wash the dishes with one hand. Contrary to how I got the injury, not getting any younger, I’ve also been jokingly taunted as a “wimp”. But then again, these are tolerable compared to the unbearable agony, however withstood, in self-sacrificing in order to save mankind. Nevertheless, it’s sav...