Hands

I can pick their hands out in a lineup— probably their feet too. 

The hands of my people. 

I know the shape of their nail beds, and the texture of their skin. I know the width of their fingers and the ups and downs of the graph they make next to each other. 

Chances are you do too. And my guess is one of the sets of hands you’ve collected in your mental menagerie of hands are those of your mother. 

I studied my mom’s hands intently sitting in church as a child. That was the time in the week where I had my mother’s hands all to myself. Dainty and feminine, sparkling wedding ring in its place. I know her hands as well as I know my own. 

I held my daughter’s hands the other day and really took the time to look at them. I’ve held them many times in her life. To protect her from traffic. To keep her close in a crowd. 

This time, to my surprise, they didn’t match the image I carry of her hands in my mind. My mental impression of them are those of a much smaller child. When had her fingers gotten so long? She’s stopped chewing her fingernails, and picking at her cuticles. With a stutter in my pulse, I caught a glimpse of my grown daughter.

I wonder if she will remember my hands. I think she will, if I will stop moving long enough to let her study. 

Time will paint our hands with spots, swell our knuckles and smooth our hard earned calluses, but don’t underestimate their impact. 

In this enormous palm in which we spin— stop the spiral long enough to memorize and be memorized. 

Whose hands do you know as well as your own?