Sometimes I look at my hands and see stunting. I see my dad’s hands, my brothers’ hands. I see their statures. Their hands are broader and digits longer, their bodies taller. I see my hands covered and made diminutive, they shrink in comparison, and I shrink with them. I see what could have been, me standing statuesque and grand, hands like hams dangling on orangutan arms.
Sometimes I look at my hands and see my hands. I see scaly dermis, dessicated webbing, bashed fingernails. I see the index shake. I see where in high school I tried my resolve with a lit cigarette. I see drums in abductioned thumbs. I see rough rocks and vibrating roundwounds in pocked callous coverings. In gathered palm, I see vessels of water uplifted, morning ablutions, satiating slurping. I see aqueducts flushing blood from shirtsleeve to wrist to digit entwining. I see handshakes. I see lines that lead to fortuitous futures. I see myself grasp a pencil, pack a snowball, knead thighs, juggle pins, pledge allegiance.
For a time, I saw hands everywhere. I saw club thumbs, stunted and decapitated digits, scars, tattoos, bitten nails, sinews. I saw hands in all manner of shape and size, all manner of human hue: roasted coffee, clotted cream, cedar, humus, ivory, butterscotch. I saw potent hands, penitent hands, dry hands, turgid veins, parchment skin. I saw all species of adornment: tiny spoons wrapped 'round thumbs, gigantic runner’s watches on wrists, fingernail paints and patinations, wedding bands on ring fingers, multi-finger rings, not to mention gloves of all sorts, which hide hands. Beneath these and other burdens and beauties and buffers, hands abide. I saw hands that had performed baptisms, held guns, hefted beams to scrape skies, hands that painted hands, absent hands, tiny hands, ancient hands.
I suggest you see hands, not the least your own. Hands may be dumb instruments but they work wonders, tell stories, and hold the weight of the world.
Sometimes I look at my hands and see my hands. I see scaly dermis, dessicated webbing, bashed fingernails. I see the index shake. I see where in high school I tried my resolve with a lit cigarette. I see drums in abductioned thumbs. I see rough rocks and vibrating roundwounds in pocked callous coverings. In gathered palm, I see vessels of water uplifted, morning ablutions, satiating slurping. I see aqueducts flushing blood from shirtsleeve to wrist to digit entwining. I see handshakes. I see lines that lead to fortuitous futures. I see myself grasp a pencil, pack a snowball, knead thighs, juggle pins, pledge allegiance.
For a time, I saw hands everywhere. I saw club thumbs, stunted and decapitated digits, scars, tattoos, bitten nails, sinews. I saw hands in all manner of shape and size, all manner of human hue: roasted coffee, clotted cream, cedar, humus, ivory, butterscotch. I saw potent hands, penitent hands, dry hands, turgid veins, parchment skin. I saw all species of adornment: tiny spoons wrapped 'round thumbs, gigantic runner’s watches on wrists, fingernail paints and patinations, wedding bands on ring fingers, multi-finger rings, not to mention gloves of all sorts, which hide hands. Beneath these and other burdens and beauties and buffers, hands abide. I saw hands that had performed baptisms, held guns, hefted beams to scrape skies, hands that painted hands, absent hands, tiny hands, ancient hands.
I suggest you see hands, not the least your own. Hands may be dumb instruments but they work wonders, tell stories, and hold the weight of the world.
