The Offline Mind

I had a lovely beauty mark on the knuckle of my right hand. My whole life I secretly admired it, along with a soft brown spot along the base of my palm. I imagined that if a palm reader were reading my palm they would point these two spots out as my sun and moon, the guiding lights of my dominant hand. Knuckle moon, palm sun. I have hard-working hands, but this freckle was somehow uniquely feminine, like a descendant from the mole above Cindy Crawford’s beautiful lips. No one ever commented on this spot, the vanity was all my own.

The other day I was grating some cheese for burritos for my family of five. My arm was hyper-extended so as to keep my movements isolated from my baby asleep in the carrier against my chest. On one particularly careless swipe down with a fistful of two for $11 marble cheese, poof, off went my knuckle moon. It hung from my thumb like a loose button. I stared at it for a minute. It didn’t bleed immediately, almost like it too was in shock. Slowly the red sap oozed out and I snapped to. I washed my hand in cold water, grabbed a dish towel, and carried on grating. This time more carefully.

And that was it! Gone. After thirty-some years I was set free from my tiny vanity and I had the scar to prove it, soft and red like a too-ripe raspberry. Later that night I reflected while gazing down at my new hand. She was a stronger hand. She wasn’t held back by her ideas of herself, or newfangled astrological identity pieces. She was pragmatic and honest and had made burritos for her family. Good hand, I thought.

I looked at my palm sun and it seemed a little smaller, like she too was fading away, not by grate, but by choice. It hurt to take a shower but only for the first day and I haven’t worn rings in years really.