When I was a young girl I grew a bad habit of holding my mothers hand. Everywhere we went I wanted to hold it, and while sitting anywhere that required waiting I would hold her hands in mine and examine them. She used to tell me that my father, when he was alive, would pick her hands up and tell her they were the prettiest he had ever seen.

A part of me understands my father because my mother does have beautiful hands, and I luckily seem to taken away the lovely hand genes.

My father would have probably told me the same I would like to think.

“You have the second most beautiful hands I have ever seen, right after your mother that is.”

My sisters’ hands are small, she has a freckle on the top of her left index finger, and her nails always wear chipped nail polish.

There was an ex lover whose hands were covered in calluses, and I remember his hands now better than I do his voice or face.

A friend of mine has hands that are torn at the edges of her fingers. When she is nervous she picks at scabs that she created herself, and its a continuous cycle.

A lost friend had the toughest hands I had ever felt. When they would touch my skin mild scratches were left behind, and I never told him because I thought he would get offended or insulted, but the roughness was never uncomfortable. It was the rough friction his hands brought that I once thought was home.

These hands of mine will feel more than my brain could ever imagine up. They will feel real and true connections; they will feel pain, happiness, and every in between emotion.


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