I remembered her asking me. She gently rubbed her little finger across the calloused bump protruding from my middle finger. The one on my writing hand. Admiring the deformity on my finger, her big eyes looked up and met mine.She was a beauty. One I admired. Her simplicity and good spirits. I often wondered how the soul of a child maneuvered through this world with such ease and joy, as if ice-skating, gliding across a frozen tundra-- some how skimming over the all-too dark and murky water.
"Tell me a story, will you? Write it down, so I'll have it forever."
Her words wrote love on my heart.
Looking down at my finger now, the sign of a writing hand has long disappeared. I suppose it to be possible for callouses to form on the tips of your fingers from typing; however, mine have not. More likely, I suppose that over time, my penmanship has slowly faded into months of busyness. Should I suppose that callouses form over a writing heart? Nay.
Today, a little girl interlocked her fingers with mine. She did not find the same curious bump. Yet, she looked up at me with those big eyes requesting, "Miss Wheat, tell me a story."
It's something from within. She did not need outward evidence... only a hunger. Hunger for creativity. Hunger for someone's heart. Hunger for a story.
Even if, but for a moment, my hand must begin writing again. Sitting stagnate, this muscle must be awakened... must be exercised...
If not for me, I must write for that little girl who believed in me.
