Miranda Abbott

Miranda Abbott is an emerging writer from Naarm (Melbourne), Australia studying a Bachelor of Creative Writing at RMIT. Her practice explores hidden memory and the body’s role in writing. Her work has been published in The Big Issue, RMIT’s Catalyst Magazine and Baby Teeth Journal. She is currently interning with the Stella Prize. Miranda uses writing as a means of contemplation. You can contact her through mirandaabbott.com.au.

Easy read of the story in the images above:

How to Know Which Hands You Have

A.

You have too few fingers to count the number of people that have commented on your fastidiousness. You will drive back through the drive-thru to collect the missed napkins in your takeaway bag. You own the correct amount of cutlery for one’s persons 3 meals a day, and if you run out of clean forks before a long-awaited dinner, you simply wash the dishes before eating and you do not cry about having to do so. You trim your nails on the balcony and collect the scattered slithers in your cupped palm to dispose of them appropriately. You do not brush them into your neighbours below courtyard. In fact, the thought of doing so has never crossed your mind. More than one lover has commented on your unwillingness to intersect fingers, you opt for the more passive and efficient approach: palms touching palms, thumbs touching thumbs. Touch typing is a skill you have considered listing on your curriculum vitae. We cannot all be artists. Without your hands, the garbage would cease to be collected. Puzzles would permanently be missing their final piece, junk drawers an epidemic.

B.

Bugs regularly crawl onto the side of your thumbs, some reach as far as the inside of your elbow before flying away. You have been seen placing one hand on your stomach, and one on your heart when the sun is shining. Your clap is all palm. It thuds like a round log being thrown onto soft ground. Transcendence can be found in the ocean, churches, and the soul of the women who have had their hair swept behind their ears while you gaze into their eyes. You have placed a hand onto the firm round belly of a handful of pregnant women, and only one pulled away in disgust. You enjoy the catharsis of spreading tarot cards on a bedspread. You enjoy gardening, scraping out the worms of dirt from under your thumbnails after you plant something.

C.

A bonsai would be a poor gift choice if one were to buy your hands a gift. Something robust like a mother-in-law’s-tongue would be more suitable. In prison, you learnt toilet paper and mayonnaise make fine material for paper-mâché projects. You crack each knuckle in your hands without any fear of arthritis. You can swipe your licked thumb into the fire of a flame with little-to-no reaction. Velvet, your daughter’s braid, a cat’s tail, a tub of cocoa butter: these textures teach us you can be delicate when provoked. You are a scruncher, not a folder. With deep shame, you could never get the end of a joint tight enough to make the filter fit snug. When you were a child, you punched 3 holes into the drywall of your bedroom, and when drifting off to sleep, you imagined each became a portal leading to three different worlds. The first, a vibrant city that came alive at night, full of intriguing people who could each offer you a taste of different material pleasures. The second, a tropical island full of girls in bikinis, serving you a BLT, fries, and choc mint ice-cream. The third, your mother’s womb.

D.

People have told you that you are highly sensitive. These people include an astrologist, a reiki master, a palm reader and a holistic counsellor. When you were a child, you were convinced you could manipulate water. You know better than most that trees are not only for giving hugs, but also for receiving them. You have only known true peace when friends’ babies have clutched your pinky finger with their fists, and you await the day you too have something as meaningful to hold onto. In the meantime, you enjoy the act of opening a bottle of wine. Screwing the opener into the cork, pressing down on its arms, releasing. The pop. You enjoy when you lover fills your mouth with his fingers. You enjoy collecting shells. Shells go into the left compartment. Sea glass into the right. Acutely special pebbles in the middle, and underneath, the sapphire that escaped from your late grandmother’s favourite necklace. This compartment is otherwise left alone. You have a suitcase full of collage discards under your bed. You sucked your thumb for 6 years too long. You lick your finger before turning a page. Your nails are holy when tapped rhythmically on granite, slabs of steel, or the keys of a grand piano.