Daphne Benedis-Grab

Five (Fingers)

Daphne Benedis-Grab

The first time I saw my daughter 

Was in the photo from the orphanage where she lived.

She was five months old,

Fat baby cheeks, dark brown eyes, a wild puff of black curls,

Delicate little girl hands, 

One on top of the other, teensy nails, skin gold and pink,

five soft fingers visible.

My son’s big eyes stared at the camera with curiosity,

In his photo,

An eager hand reaching out. 

He was five months and two weeks old, an orphan about

To become a son and a brother and an American. 

My girl was petite when we arrived at the orphanage, 

propped up in a chair, 

her brother beside her hooting loudly, kicking baby feet, plush hands reaching towards us.

My girl sat silent, hands folded carefully, feelings a secret.

My boy screeched, waving wildly, little hands like birds, fingers in flight,

For my husband to pick him up. 

My husband cuddled him close as I knelt next to our girl,

Reached out a finger and touched her hand,

The little girl hand from the picture.

And slowly five little fingers wrapped around my thumb.

On the long airplane ride to their next home 

Little hands rejected toys, reached instead for empty water bottles, clumsily batted them at each other,

And laughed.

When we arrived at the airport my son startled at a loud sound 

And for the very first time his hands reached up 

Wanting me.

I pulled him close, closed my eyes as little warm hands gently patted my face.

In their new home we set out toys, let babies roam free on a cozy blanket, creeping, rolling, delicate fingers selecting toys to stuff into eager mouths. 

We put them down at night,

In cribs next to each other, as they were in the orphanage.

I stay until they sleep, then

Walk over and lay five feather soft fingers, on little backs that breath in unison.