The Hand Of Fatima Talisman

The Hand Of Fatima Talisman

The hand of Fatima hangs where I can feel it, not see it.

Cool to touch, then part of me, like it has always been there.

I did not choose it lightly, I put it on with a quiet need.

Not fear, something close, something I can not explain.

It faces outward, always outward, as if it knows where to look.

I do not turn it, I do not question it, I let it do what it does.

There are days when the air feels heavier, when eyes feel tired .

That is when I notice it more, sitting steady against my chest.

It does not glow, it does not shift, nothing dramatic happens.

Just a sense that something stops, or turns, or loses its way.

Like a door that never fully opens, like a step that is not taken.

Small things, but enough, enough for me to keep wearing it.

I have touched it in quiet moments, not praying, not asking.

Just checking it is there, still holding its place.

There is comfort in that, in something that does not move.

Something that does not leave when everything else does.

People might call it belief, or habit, or nothing at all.

I do not argue, I do not try to name it for them.

For me it is simple, it stays, it faces the world for me.

It takes what I do not want to carry in my own hands.

So I leave it where it rests, against skin, against breath.

Let it watch what I cannot always see coming.

Let it stand there, open, unclosed, unafraid.

And that is enough, that has always been enough.

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