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.
