Hands

I remember clearly what happened the day I realized that had become mother. Well, not my mother, exactly, but a sort of extended version of her. I was leaving a class that I hadn't really paid attention in and the reflection of light off her ring caught my eye. I looked down at my hands and couldn't tell the difference between my own and the memory I had of hers.

Since then I've had a small obsession with hands. I used to think that looking at someone's hand could tell you a lot about who they were. The rougher they were, the harder the person was to get to know. Someone with soft delicate hands generally would be easily walked over in life. Now I know that someone's hands give you no sort of glimpse into their soul at all.

Yeah, I can do that...

I look at my own hands and while I think you can tell some things about me from them, I don't think they say it all. Someone could probably tell that I play the guitar and have no idea how to keep the ideal feminine nail bed, but what does that really say about me? I have small hands that are softer than some, but rougher than others. They're easily callused and not used to hard labor. These hands, though, are capable of so much. I can caress my boyfriend's face and wipe my tears. The roughened skin on the tips of my fingers is so soft to my niece when she cries. They're slow to catch a ball, but can dance across the keyboard with remarkable ease.

Of all things to inherit from my mother, I'm glad I got her hands.