My feet are the reminder that we were not always as we are now. Dwarf fingers, the stubby great toe incapable of opposition. Feet long and thin will not fold into the familiar grip. Lovers, though they play footsie, do not entwine feet, or caress one another with those struggling, failed prehensile digits.

My feet do not know any frustration at their condition. Rather, they rejoice in being what they are, and participate willingly in their supporting role, invisible for the most part, known more by their covering than their naked selves. Hands and faces are the stars, all else hidden away for private moments or secret trysts.

These humble players in the body's drama, these non-fingers always struggling for balance, these arrested hands, were never to grasp tools or make fire. Nonetheless they allowed us our first great step, to stand on our own two feet and survey the world with lofty eyes, freeing their more glamorous sisters to reach for the stars.

August 25, 2002

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