One less fingernail to clip.

I see my hands. Because I take time to observe. Not like baby hands. Older hands  now. The tip of my middle finger missing. Gives my right hand a look of distinction. People rarely take notice though. Unless I hold up a wide open hand. In a gesture. People I’ve known for years, suddenly notice. They wonder what happened. I tell them, I was eating a potato chip. Carelessly. And bit off the first digit. Occasionally, someone believes me.  Especially a stranger. They don’t know me yet. And take everything I say seriously. If the real truth be told. I was 13. And my sister slammed a door. In the kitchen. In a fit of temper. Wham, there goes the tip of the finger.  Mother wasn’t home. So I calmly walked up to the hospital. Two blocks away. In those days, they used ether. Put me under. Patched up the finger. It’s saved me lots of time over the years. Because there’s one less fingernail to clip. –Jim Broede