You’re teaching your daughter to tie her shoelaces. She watches you pass the loops over and under, her concentration furious, as though she's trying to detect a magician’s sleight of hand. She still believes your fingers cast spells; they can heal a hurt, soothe a fever, whisk away tears and dirt. Now her own fingers copy yours, looping laces into sloppy nooses, pulling tight.
“I done it mummy,” she says.
You tell her they’re perfect bows, even though they’re not double knotted and they will
loosen and slip undone. But then she will return to you, trailing laces like nylon umbilical cords. You won’t yet show her how to tie them twice. Soon you will have to. Soon she won’t return to you. Soon the miniature nooses will tighten enough to kill her need for you. Soon your fingers will become mundane.
But for now, your hands still conjure love.
Fiona Dignan started writing during lockdown to cope with the chaos of home-schooling four children. Last year, she won The London Society Poetry Prize and The Plaza Prize for Sudden Fiction. She was a finalist in the LISP poetry competition and is Puschcart Prize Nominated.
This story was shortlisted for the June 24 Monthly Micro Competition.