My hands. They are small, my fingers stubby. I have scars and freckles and wrinkles, signs of too much sun, hard work, old wounds. Sometimes ink or paint or strawberry juice stain my fingers. I keep my nails trimmed short because it’s easier to type, to write. The simple white gold band I wear isn’t my original wedding ring, the one that married me 20 years ago. It proved to be too much, too gold, too big. Once, I broke the diamond right off. Things that are delicate, need special care aren’t safe on my hands.
I’ve held beauty in my hands. I’ve touched the world, let it touch me. I’ve understood the truth without the need for words, and then had my fingers itch to write it down.
I’ve feed myself with my hands. Sometimes when I’ve been too hungry, too greedy, I took too much, stuffed myself. Other times my hands stayed empty and I was starving.
I’ve read the world with my hands like it was written in braille. I knew things there were no words for, things I understood and things I couldn’t comprehend no matter how hard I tried.
heart-shaped petal with a heart-shaped hole
I’ve held my own heart in my hands. Sometimes I gave it away. Sometimes I was trying (and failing) to keep the broken pieces together.
I’ve found heart-shaped rocks, picked them up and put them in my pocket.
My hands have tried too hard. “I tried carrying the weight of the world. But I only have two hands.”
I’ve held on too tight, as hard as I could with both hands. I’ve wanted to hold on forever, and had to let go.