These Hands

These are no-nonsense hands. Tomboy hands.

These hands have climbed trees, caught bugs, whittled sticks, picked scabs, and shot bumbershoots*.

These hands used to blow noses, dry tears, and wipe bottoms. They used to spank those same bottoms. Sometimes these hands pointed fingers. Sometimes they still do. These hands have thumbed noses but have refrained from wiping smirks off faces. They have also stopped addressing drivers in traffic. This is because the Woman has domesticated them and (mostly) trained them to speak Love instead of Middle Finger. It may be (may!) that one hand rebelled once (once!) against etiquette and drilled into a nostril at a traffic light. But I’m sure that is only a rumor. Seriously–who would do that?

These hands stroke skin and braid hair. Sometimes they rub backs. They crochet animal hats and knit circle scarves. They garden without gloves because dirt feels good. These hands can scrape every last molecule of goodness out of the Nutella jar.

These hands fold clothes, scrub bathrooms, and bag groceries. They slice, dice, chop, mince, and grate. Curry and stir fry are some of their favorites. Black beans and rice too. Hey, don’t forget the soups! The hands bake as well, the show offs: Cheese cake; warm, yeasty rolls with cinnamon, caramel, and pecans; apple pie. Recipes are treasures passed from hand to hand in a generational relay. The pair displays its heritage with every bite: knife in the left hand; fork in the right.

These hands lead a double life. Sometimes they have to act their age. They tell themselves to rest quietly and listen while Clients speak to the Woman about all manner of pains and worries. They bend and sculpt themselves into Openness, Care, and Wisdom. They arrange themselves in nonjudgmental positions upon bland, nonjudgmental slacks. The hands tap out progress notes and dial calls to psychiatrists. Sometimes, if they are really naughty, they pinch each other to keep from daydreaming or dozing off.

These hands speak. Are you surprised? The wrinkles and spots tell of running in the sunshine. When you cluck at their dry skin, each tells you off in turn: Nothing to see here! Mind your own business! The ring finger says: Fine. Band me. The nails are starting to tap nervously. They think: We’re going to be in trouble at that Southern wedding next month. They whine and beg: Can’t we just go commando?

The left hand is still a little sad. Maybe even nursing a grudge. Leftie and Rightie used to match until a harried nurse forced saline through an IV port, ignoring Leftie’s cries of pain. The nurse burst all those lovely, plump veins. Some hands think veins are ugly, but their prominence made Leftie feel strong and able. She grieved as they paraded their farewell: black, blue, purple, brown, green, yellow, gone. Rightie restored Leftie’s dignity by entrusting her with Urgent Ideas Which Cannot Wait. See the smudge near Leftie’s thumb? Rightie scrawls ideas there, and Leftie remembers them for her. Leftie also gets to store things on her wrist: pony tail holders and the rubber bands which hold together the Woman’s Tupperware so the juice from her mango slices doesn’t leak into her work bag. Of course neither hand holds bracelets. What a bother!

These hands have faces made for radio, and they tell it like it is.

These are my hands.

*We pulled the long stems from these weeds and twisted them around on themselves so that when we yanked, the flower heads flew off. We called them “bumbershoots” and had little battles with them.