At OnePinky.com, we acknowledge the power and the beauty within ourselves—even if it’s as small as the loveliness of a single pinky. Today, OnePinky member Danielle shares her pinky story:

When I look at my pinky, I remember my grandmother, Gigi. These hands are hers - growing from my body - as though they were a simple set of gloves she had left behind when she passed.

Gig was a pianist - a teacher - a regal woman who loved my grandfather until the day she died - even though he had left her 50 years earlier. She had been his English teacher, a quiet poet with red lips and mastery over the keys. She had wanted very little…

I didn’t really know she was a poet until I saw her book in the bookstore in Sausalito… or that she was this amazing teacher and had a gift with the piano… Or that she, too, had all these other dreams besides being someone’s Gigi. Or the first wife of a famous man. Or the woman who had that stroke.

Before she died, she had me read some of her journals to her. There was a lover in them - a passionate romance before my grandfather - fire. What happened after was quiet. Her own protective beauty keeping it lady-like. A long bit of silence… her life.

I held on to her during those last few hour, spooning her like a best friend or a favorite pet - or a grandmother you never got to really know. It all seems the same in those moments - when time is gone and there’s just two bodies holding on for dear life - at the same time that they are letting go. She was holding on to my hand - squeezing it with all the words she was no longer able to speak - and I saw that they were the same. Hers and mine. She and I.

I love my little pinkies. These hands. The hugeness of them meant to stretch across the keys of piano like a lover’s hand across my back… Bach, Mozart, Chopin… remembering the ache of pleasure… the sweetness of touch… a life I have known.

Do you have a pinky story to share? Be sure to post it on the message boards here.