My hands have always been old.
They were born that way.
I was 6 + they were 60.
“That girl’s an old soul,” the elders would say.
I just knew they were referring to my hands.
“Quick!”
I’d bury them deep in my pockets,
hiding,
always hiding.
On playgrounds, “don’t let them see…”
I’d whisper to myself,
afraid of the meanness that would later come.
First dates…
First touches…
First _______…
The fear pressed so tight, it made no room for second chances.
“Here! I like to hold hands this way”, I’d exclaim,
curling my hand into a ball form +
forcing it into the palm of another,
masking what I could not change.
Time has only kept its promise…
they are as they started,
old.
Endless wrinkles, crevices, + constellations
carved into cocoa skin.
A story written before I understood the language.
I know this now.
They have given me their all
without reserve.
They have
pushed
pulled
pressed
forged
ached
fought against
+ for.
They have
protected
scratched
burned
cared
carried
+ created.
They have
rubbed
caressed
wiped
bled
clapped
cooked
broken
+ still brush my lips gently when thought carries me away.
My hands have lived all of me.
And now, I love them for it.
Like most things in midlife,
gratitude becomes clearer.
It was never about how they looked,
but the power they hold.
The world is in my hands.
They have cradled both life + death.
I like to think they carry my ancestors in their lines,
known + unknown,
a roadmap guiding me through time
…to + fro…
every gesture connects me.
My story is in my hands,
+ they reveal it each time I sit down to write.
The old soul they once whispered about,
I see her alive in every line.
X, Grateful.
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Benivia,
This is pure loveliness, from the inside out. I do not like my hands, which is so sad since they function as a magician when I sit down to draw. I have thicker fingers with short squatty nail beds, like my dad. I have veins that prompt phlebotomists to chase me down. Paint my squatty nail beds red and I qualify for a haunted house. Over the years, I have tried to look at my hands with gratitude. Thank you for these beautiful words that remind me of my hand-held history.
Your musings are always so tender and true. So beautiful and so incredibly you.