Five fingers on each hand you had.

You read and wrote and climbed and made castles of mud and sand. And you weaved little stories at the story mill.

Then you got a Gameboy. You didn’t need your pinkies for Pokémon. So they fell off.

Then you got MySpace. Flipping the bird got replaced by digital passive agression. Your middle fingers, redundant, melted away.

Your Nokia 3310 claimed your index fingers. No need to leaf through phonebooks now. Tinder took your ring fingers.

And now you’re just thumbs. You can’t write stories with thumbs. Stories flow from the heart and brain and wait at the knuckles. But they’re too big to get through the thumbs. Stories are ten-finger cargo. No more stories for you, then.