à gauche

This group of disturbing statues in the garden of the Musee Rodin, gaze pensively to the right. Was Rodin left handed?

I oft think upon what might have been should life have dealt a better hand. “à droit”, “adroit”, “dexter”, “dexterous”; the very romance languages crying out against me, alone, left “sinister” and “gauche”. Manipulated by fate. Mishandled by fortune. Misaligned aforehand.

How strange that in this “digital” age, no-one else may see my gaucherie. At last I have the upper-hand, the dexterity I crave, and with each finger strike I compose, devoid of sinister connotations. Penning my works ambidextrously, yet not all fingers and thumbs, but rightly formed and rightly directed.

And so, despite being left in a world where even an ineptitude with scissors cuts one to the quick, I clutch to my bosom the non-judgmental keyboard that so kindly lets my fingers compose without taking sides, never pointing out my shame.

In response to Writing 201: fingers