If my toes could tell you stories, they would tell of all the piles and corners of things I’ve run into in my time. I’m sure there have been quite a lot. Stubbed toes are like elephants and remember each minor altercation – don’t let anyone tell you different. (And be careful of where you step!)
If my feet could tell you tales, you’d hear about all they lands they’ve taken me through: sandy beaches, rocky beaches, cobblestone streets, earthy woods, concrete jungles, and stairs upon stairs upon stairs… But no two staircases are alike, they’d say to you, and you’d be here quite a while. They’d tell of you of all those in castles and humble homes; those made of wood and of stone; certainly some covered in carpet, others painted, and still others that were merely stained or otherwise unadorned. You would hear how all the lands are very different, yet practically identical in ways, in France, Canada, Germany, the United States, England, Scotland, Belgium, and so forth. They’d have a lot to say, those feet.
If my knees could spin you yarns, I’m sure they’d tell you about each time they went weak when talking to a cute boy. They’d tell you about the skins and scrapes, how they hate it when I run, and even about the time I managed to pop the patella out of socket by doing absolutely nothing fantastic at all. The knees know that if given just the right circumstances, anything is possible. They do not scoff at flying pigs.
If my hips could regale you with their memoirs, you’d hear tragedies of all the times I should have danced but didn’t; the rhythms they could have swayed to, the partners with whom they might have tangoed. In the end, they’d send you off with the words of warning: to never decline a little two-step.
If my waistline could gush about anything, it would be about all my fabulous gastronomical adventures! It would make your mouth water to hear all the delectable dishes it would share with you. The waistline would compliment itself, saying, It’s truly a wonder I’m not twice or thrice the size I am! It would chuckle, though it would have a mind to double itself if it meant fitting in more food. Once it was finished telling you all it could, it would ask you about all your tasty experiences. As you spoke, it would only interrupt to excuse its noisy hunger rumbles.
If my lungs could chronicle their memories of our time together, you’d hear about the best of times (in which there was much laughter or moments that took my breath away) and the worst of times (in which the wind had been knocked from them, either by force or by sorrow). They might grumble about my smoking days but they’d be more delighted to tell you about the cleanest, freshest breezes they ever took in – though you’d have to ask the feet where they’d been taken. Slowly in and slowly out, the lungs take the days and the air as they come – though they’re fully aware that some day, both of these things will end.
If my fingers could wind you up in words, they’d set themselves like spiders and weave you webs of memories. Hands that were held, jewels that were worn, arts and writing projects that were undertaken – they’d cocoon you in it all. Once they had you tightly bundled, so you couldn’t move away too quick, they’d share their woes of being over worked and under appreciated. They take care of all those small tasks that go over looked, after all, and what thanks do they receive? When are they pampered and loved? Normally it only comes as an afterthought when the back – that trollop and attention grabber – made itself enough of a pain to get some attention. By the time you pried yourself loose from the fingers’ grip, you’d be unsympathetic to their plight.
My body would have some fantastic accounts to run by you, I’m most certain. But I’m glad it’s only the mouth can do the talking.