The other day, Jeremy and Brody were drawing. Brody wanted daddy to trace his hand. He did. Then Brody wanted Daddy to trace his hand. He did, right over Brody's. Superimposed hands. I loved the imagery.
Last night, Brody is in bed. That drawing is still out. Jeremy is looking at it.
"Did you ever notice that your pinkie is pretty much the same size as your thumb?" He asks me from the living room.
Distracted in the kitchen, I respond, "Um. . . no." I wonder what the hell he is talking about, and marvel at the randomness of his conversation.
I walk into the living room. He looks up at me and asks, "Do you think it would be weird to have no pinkies? Do you think you'd miss them or do you not use them that much?"
Why is he asking me about pinkies, I wonder. Our son is missing thumbs, not pinkies. Still, I look at my own hand. "Eh," I say, "You probably wouldn't miss them. I don't think I use mine that much."
I walk back into the kitchen, grabbing a glass and opening the fridge to get milk. I set the milk on the counter. I wonder where my vitamins are and whether I have any echinacea left.
"Because," he says from the living room, "why don't we just transplant my pinkies onto Brody's hands when he's older. They're about the same size as a thumb. I won't miss my pinkies."
I had the milk jug poised over the glass and had to set it down immediately. My body bent in half and my forehead rested on the counter top and I was already starting to cry. That silent, shoulder-shaking, all-consuming kind of cry.
I don't know why I was crying. Jeremy was talking about giving Brody his fingers as if it was of no more consequence to him than giving Brody his old t-shirt.
It was one of the most beautiful things I've ever heard in my life.