You slid your hands over my forearms and all I could think about was tune my heart to sing Thy grace, tune my heart, as your thumbs massaged the skin between my arm bones and over my veins, your hands callused from playing the guitar too much. I knew you must have bled for music. I could imagine blisters on those strong, thin fingers, like the blisters on my feet, the rising skin, I have danced too much and for too long, tune my heart, oh ebenezer, oh long and dangerous journey. Are you all right? Yes, probably. I’ll be okay in a second. There is always a rest between songs, between routines, but not enough for my heart to slow down, not enough for skin to heal. Blisters are adaptive; it’s better to thicken than to rupture, and we have learned that the hard way, you and I, through different routes but ending up at the same place. Who knew how sensitive my arms would be to each whorl and ridge on your thumbs. Who knew. Tune my heart.