fictional

I noted the chafed, cracking skin on my porcelain hands, as is anything but improbable when motions and tasks of the day involve manual maneuvering. "Lotion, sure," I thought. You can tell this story is going to be a teeth-gritting suspense...

Walking home with plastic bags adourning my arms, I glanced down at my left hand and the part of my arm peeking through the loose boucle housecoat I'd worn...out of the house, of course...carrying 3 heavy plastic bags on one arm, the pressure had caused the blood to rush and flood my left wrist and hand..."hmm, I'm alive!" I thought, giddily turning the key (with my much less organic right hand) and opening the door to my apartment.

Ray Naud's Syndrome Phenomenon, he told me. This was years ago. Probably 2003 or 2004. Surely, I'd just sprained my wrist, astounding pals with my gymnastic abilities. (Mind you, the motions and mindset were all right..coordination was even there...but, ahoy hoy? I was a measly 60 pound kid when I learned these things. What does this have to do with my near-26-year-old-self, you ask? Everything. That was a lie. I was merely reflecting upon the strange delay in reflushing of the blood vessels in my extremities...

How does it feel? Bah, we're not without home or like complete unknown(s)...but yes, we are rolling stones, my Dad and I.

Happy birthday, Dad...my hero, my life force, my friend.