In order to repair my wounded finger,
they had to have my arm.
When I woke, I didn’t initially notice
that my arm was missing.
It looked normal by my side,
lying on the blue, foam prop.
Only when I was home in bed
did I understand the full extent of its vacancy:
I rolled over but my arm didn’t follow.
Hopelessly, it flopped down by my side,
dead to touch and neural clues, I realized
The Arm no longer belonged to me.
Throughout that night I kept watch,
to see if my arm had come back home.
When the answer was stillness,
I quietly prayed for its return.
Finally when the nerve unblocked,
I sighed deep thanksgiving
at the slightest movement
of my fingers.
The whole time I couldn’t stop thinking
about my father…
whose stroke took his arm away from him,
whose hand still lies lost in a sling.
The grief he must have felt,
and perhaps, still does.