There are 27 bones in a hand.
I examine my left hand carefully, I think of how much work it leaves up to my right.
I try to imagine how many hands I’ve touched, thousands? None memorable.
None particularly soft, or particularly kind, or particularly warm.
I love to hold my daughter’s hands, the smallness of them, the honesty of them.
My hands are bodies, they are souls in their own right, they have a knowing and a conscious.
The way they naturally long for something, the way they avoid, the way they pray,
the way they wrap around me when I’m enduring, to comfort me, pretending not to be me, and yet belonging to me.
My hands can love and they can hate.
My hands have eyes.
My hands have dreams and aspirations.
My hands; passionate, talented, strong, loving, severe.