There was a day the world telescoped to my small hands,
palms cupped like two safe houses, toes tucked under like secrets.
Perfection was a count: one by one, the little lights,
all ten blinking OK beneath the blanket of a house that smelled like toast.

I could measure myself then; fingers against cheek, toes against rug,
and the arithmetic of being was simple and whole.
No future to tally, no ledger of losses, only the quiet sum of flesh and yes.
I held my feet up to the light and announced my completeness.

Later, the world taught me fractions: how love splits, how grief subtracts,
how bodies and promises can change with weather and years.
But that small ledger keeps a warm corner in my chest;
a receipt stamped “enough” from the cashier of a simpler sky.

Sometimes, when the room is too loud, I count again.
Slow, like prayer…
Ten fingers, ten toes, a tiny house of certainty I can still stand under.
For one bright second, the math returns and I am whole enough to breathe.