Hands fascinate me.
The way they work for so many things
And how for some reason
A person’s hands are what I remember them by.
I know the curves of my grandfather’s hands like they were my own.
The way the crease and crack in all new ways each time I see them.
I remember being a child on his lap and spreading my fat little hands against them.
My mothers hands.
They’re always soft and cold even in the heat of the summer.
Like a marble counter
They’re soft in the firmness of them.
I stood upon those hands.
Everything I’ve become based off those two hands.
The two I always wished would hold mine
But never an answered prayer.
They way the seemed to spell my name
In a language I could never pronounce.
And then there are my own hands.
Somewhere between a womans
And the rough hands of a man.
Fully formed but still too small.
Thick tapers of shaky unsettling nature.
I like to think of my hands somewhat like my grandmother’s.
Hers always shook and I’ve never been able to take a still photo.
I just hope someday someone remembers me
The way I remember her.
So when I see you
I may not be able to look in your eyes.
I may bow my head and shrink
But know I’m looking at your hands.
Your hands that mean the world to me.
Your hands that tell me who you are.