Memories in Hand

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.

His 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.