Keeping Fingers Crossed

A silent ritual, a whispered plea, fingers intertwined, a fragile lattice of hope. We bend them, contort them, these extensions of our will, as if their awkward posture could sway the universe, as if a physical knot could bind fate to our desire. Is it misbelief, a relic of ancient fears, a tactile appeal whispered to unseen forces? Or a desperate act of control, a small, manageable illusion in a world of chaos? The child's crossed fingers, a shield against playground taunts, the gambler's twist, a silent bargain with chance, the lover's clasp, a fragile bridge over doubt. We hold our breath, as if the tension in our joints, the pressure against skin and bone, could somehow hold back the tide of uncertainty. A tiny act of defiance, a rebellion against the inevitable, a fragile gesture, a silent, hopeful lie. Do we cross our fingers for luck, or for the illusion of it? And in that fleeting moment, when hope and doubt collide, do we find a strange, quiet comfort in the knot of our own hands? ©bfa032625