Fingerprints

These thin, looping ridges of skin, these

mountains and valleys incarnate are one of the

very few things in life that I can claim to be

entirely my own. For no thought is original and

no bone structure or iris hue can truly name

itself unique. What do we have for ourselves,

then, but microscopic helixes and slight

phalangeal grooves? The day the sun rose on

our lives we stepped into that golden morning,

surrounded by glass potential – a kaleidoscope

of prisms with no streaks or opacities. We tell

the story of our lives by where we leave

our fingerprints; which windows we put

our hands to and which ones we let remain

untouched. We only amount to our choices

in the end, and we all must answer for them.

I may not be completely proud of each opaque

print that I have left – and yet I also know

that I have touched my share of rare and

special panes. Those crystals bear the marks

of my experiences; that glass keeps record of

my journey. How can I not be proud, then,

of those cloudy smears and smudges? I may

not be entirely unique, but no one else could

wander this glass maze and alter the light

filtering through those prisms the same way.

No one else could make those beams bend and

refract to show the same brilliant splashes of

color. So I’ll continue to traverse this clear

world, and I’ll continue to leave behind

my fingerprints.