What is Written on My Hands
My hands tell a long story. There are cracks and cuts; some are very old, others new. They have held a newborn and reach to hug a young adult. They’ve carried bread, cameras, and pets who have passed on. They’ve held the hand of many loves and now hold the hands of one love repeatedly. They have stitched, cooked, painted, drew, and typed. They now move a little bit slower but still well. They used to be manicured but now look wrinkly and wild, even with a civilizing dose of lotion. They’ve tried to harm me from time to time, yet still take care of me with tenderness.
As I write my hands try to keep up with my mind. Some days it’s a winning combination.