It was when I was in school that I first learned,
The lines on my palm meant something.
They were more than a random design. More than haphazard placement.
I learned that these lines would change.
They evolve with the choices, made.
I learned what each line stood for. There were only a few to remember.
One stood for the matters of the heart. One for money.
One for education and one for travel.
I learned something very important,
The lines, sewn together were the plots of a life’s story.
As I started looking at other people’s palms, I learned some more.
Palms were all, always, only slightly different.
Some had very few lines and some had so many.
Some had such dark lines while others’ lines were light.
Some had these long winding lines while others had what looked like tiny little scratches.
I learned, also, that the way some lines bent and the way they criss-crossed,
The way they deviated and how long or short they were,
Were specific plots of a person’s life story.
Having learned so much about the lines on my palm,
I figured out my own story.
I knew how long I’d live. I knew how many kids I’d have.
I knew where I’d live and I knew how much money I would have.
I knew exactly what would happen. And when it would.
But something strange took place.
One day, I met someone.
And his palm didn’t interest me. Not even a little.
It was his face, his voice, his thoughts, his brain,
They were all so fascinating.
The shape of his hands, the way he used them in gestures, the way he walked, the way he talked.
There were so many stories in every little thing about him.
I observed him. Watched him and talked to him.
He narrated all these plots, these instances that made up his life story.
I have just not had the time to look at his palms, yet.
To read the lines of his life story. Not just yet.