over ten fucking years ago now
i traced my hand on a pice of notebook paper
tore it out, and passed it around
to the different students in my discussion-based
women’s studies 101
[which i’m pretty sure is now called “gender studies”
but like i said—this was over ten years ago]
and we all got each other’s hands
and wrote inside and outside of the tracing
what we liked and noticed about each other—
an exercise in empathy and growth and observation—
and as i worked on others’, feeling bad when i didn’t have much to say about
a particular student whom i hadn’t really gotten to know over the semester, but
i figured that was ok, because we all connect differently,
so i’d probably have a couple generic “you’re cool”s [as was the case with every
grade-school yearbook i’d ever had people sign on the last day]
but when i got my hand back, it was filled with such beautiful remarks,
such elegant and deep observations,
and kind kind words. so many words, i had a hard time reading them amongst others
and had to take the paper home to my dorm to fully appreciate it.
i placed that paper on my wall as a reminder that, maybe, just maybe, i wasn’t
a huge terrible dragon of a human,
a hoarder of souls and secrets, giving nothing in return,
maybe, maybe, maybe i was a decent human—those people who i barely knew saw it
why couldn’t i see it? i put it near the head of my bed, so i could see myself
through other people’s eyes
whenever mine were too unkind
[which was a lot]

i still have that paper, though it is not in a prominent place in my indoor decorations.
i still have that paper and know exactly where it is, because
although i don’t need to read how i’m seen through other people’s eyes
to start to see myself a little kinder, i do need to know that that once happened
and i could access it, were i ever to need the cognitive proof.
i have the memory
and sometimes
that’s enough.