A week ago, my palm was read. I scoffed and smirked while numerous people had their palms read before me, and I made a smart-assed comment about how I had more faith in my gin and tonic than in my palm, and I gulped determinedly to prove my point, but then I watched as the palm reader revealed secrets he wasn’t supposed to know, things he shouldn’t have known, things that few knew. Things that were too big for guesswork. So, I put my palm in his.
I spent most of my years being a tad smug about my hands with their long fingers. The hands that I always thanked DaddyMathews for, the hands that SS once drew (although I never saw that). That night, I wished I had anyone else’s hands but mine. Chubby hands, stubby fingers, wrinkled palms, anything but mine.
A week of agonising and imagining, and suddenly, in a flash of 2am clarity, I realised the mistake I’m sure to make. I am so convinced that my future will be the one etched out on my palm, that I’ll probably make sure that I do everything according to my palm, just so I can say, "See, my palm was right!" When in all honesty, except for a few things here and there, I would like to do everything and anything in my power to prove my palm wrong. It is a palm of mistakes, of impulsive decisions, of intricate loves. It is a palm of some strife and a lot of struggle, a palm fraught with a litany of not-niceness and sleepless worried nights.
And then another moment of clarity came along. This one at a more acceptable hour, in a whoosh of cigarette smoke and coffee, and raindrops on leaves.
Palms change. Lines change.
Change is more certain than lines on a palm.