We lost our mother to Alien Hand Syndrome. Her right hand acted up when we least expected it. Her right hand had free will, Papa joked one day, sipping his brandy. Her right hand refused to see the doctor when the rest of her body was in dire need. Her right hand entertained a different fingernail polish than her left. Her right hand was opinionated. Her right hand poured us coffee in the morning, defying my mother’s tea habits. Her right hand cooked spicier foods. Her right hand paid the bills, shared half of the rent. Her right hand voted red in a blue state. Her right hand wiped my cheeks when I cried, unlike my mother’s left which never once caressed me tenderly. Her right hand and I became really good friends. Her right hand stood up with my bullshit most days. Her right hand stood up with my mother’s bullshit, too, until one day it snapped.  Her right hand tried to wrestle her left. Her right hand tried to strangle her neck. All five fingers, clasping shut like shackles. Stretching all the way back to the nape, applying just the right kind of pressure. Doing God’s dirty work, as Papa would call it.