Minus One

Count it. One. Two. Three. And Four. Only four. Only four. Most people have five. But I have only four.

Remnants of an accident. They say, I’m lucky to be alive. They say I’m lucky to have only four. Only. Only. Only. Only. It’s never enough. I just need one more.

The rest of me’s intact. Arms. Legs. Hair. Eyes. It’s all there. Everything. There was that broken rib . . . But that healed alright. Nothing’s missing. Nothing’s missing.

I have everything. I have my family. I have my life. I have my limbs. I have my hands. Only one thing is missing. Only. Only. Only. Only four.

I should have five. I should have five fingers on my left hand. I only have four. Four fingers on a hand that should have five. Out of everything I lost a pinky.

I’m lucky to be alive. I have everything. Arms. Family. Life. Legs. But I can still count. And there’s something missing.

One. Two. Three. Four.