These Hands

My hands define me.

They are not beautiful, but my entire history can be found within them. They probably have aged more than any other part of me, the skin a little thicker, the veins pushing out, the wrinkles a bit more pronounced.

But it is the part of me that has accomplished so much.

People that know me are used to me connecting with them by touching. Holding someone's hand, cradling their face, caressing their skin has such an incredible connection for me. Holding them close out of joy, love, or sadness makes me feel conjoined to the soul, the humanity intertwining between us.

I notice my scars. There's the ironic circular one on my left ring finger from when I first cooked dinner for my future wife. The jagged one from four years old when my sister cut it with a hatchet (For real). The one on my palm from when I once rescued a little girl's toy from a fire.

It's the accomplishments of these hands though, that make me love them. They have created art, countless sketches and paintings, wielding a brush as a conductor of a symphony. They have held the pen when I have written beautiful love poems, enigmatic stories, and dismal confessions. These hands wrote numbers on a page and made them dance. They have molded clay into sculpture, dough into bread, and raw wood into form. They can take tiny metallic bits and create technological wonders. And the typing.

These hands have worked hard to enable my survival. I remember the manual labor I once did in my youth. I was young, but my hands were hard and calloused, as I went home with the blisters and sores and stiffness that came with it. I have had many jobs, and even today, I thank my hands for the work they put in tirelessly, even though it has moved from a sickle to keyboard, from a wrench to reams of paper.

I am so incredibly grateful that I know Sign Language. Because of them, I can communicate with others that cannot speak. It amazes me even today when I see these hands carve words in the air, bridging the gap between cultures. There is a poetic movement in speaking without voice.

And yet, with everything they can do, it is nothing compared to what they have let me experience. They have held a newborn baby, cradling it, as the child reaches out for their first human connection, and grips tight one of my fingers. They have also held the hand of someone breathing their last breath, feeling that one final squeeze as they pass on.

With these hands I have held close someone I love, was able to feel the strands of hair as I run my fingers through. The way their skin feels as we lie next to one another, the skin warm beneath my touch.

They have held people close, and pushed people away. They have been used in Love, as well as anger. They can tickle and scratch. They are who I am, and I am this person for having them.

Thank you.