Worms in the Dirt

No time left in Jackie’s thumbs. They died before the rest of her, dangled precious on jagged hipbones, in and out of false pockets. Useless. Amputation was out of the question. Her son moved in to lift cartons of milk, boxes of cereal, orthopedic pillows. Take out the trash. He massaged the place where her dead thumbs met palm, but the joints did not crack. They did not speak at all. Jackie blew on them at night; she soaked them in water for five hours at a time; she drenched them in oil; dressed them with moss; licked them like a cat. She flicked her wrist, threw them at the wall, but nothing: no feeling, no pain or forgiveness or hunger. She remembered when her thumbs used to be hungry. Sometimes before, she would wake, and her thumbs would crawl off the bed, itching for moisture at the window, like worms in the dirt. They had always lived faster. Now, Jackie’s body skipped every other beat to catch up. She hummingbird-jittered around the house, thumbs trailing a wingspan behind. On the last night, her son watched her wear grooves in her bedroom floor; this time he couldn’t tell if her thumbs led or followed.