He was a rebel. Albeit, a smiling rebel, but still.
In the past his antics would have steadily made me come undone.
He was after all, a middle schooler.
And Superman and I were there trying to take a picture of his team.
One that he didn't want.
So first he shook his hair to the side while Rick clicked the first shot.
Then he stood perfectly still, beaming, as Rick looked at the replay on his screen.
Then Rick took 2 more- no smiles he said.
So the boy smiled.
Then Rick said- now one with everyone smiling.
And then the boy went stone-cold serious.
Another shot foiled.
And then Rick said last three.
Look right at me.
So the boy looked, at the clock.
Then the boy gazed right at us grinning at his antics.
So the real pro that my husband is…
Clicked one final time.
It was then Rick and I who burst out laughing as the boy walked by.
My hands are so full. With living. They're hungrily thrust open, reaching, readying for life to sift through my grasp as I try to hold on.
While the secrets they hold, keep being revealed.
In the swelling of my fingers- taut and tight with lymphedema, running down the length of my arm.
And the thickness in my knuckles that cause my joints to ache, throbbing in pain after too much use.
The puffy palm underneath, the swollen part on top, belying the fact that I even have knuckles at times.
So I stuff my arm in my compression sleeve then slide my hands into a glove that makes my appendages look more like sausages.
And carry on.