50. Hands

With a weary finger and a relaxed sigh,
I trace the “M” on the palm of my hand.
Gently.
The warm tip of my finger writing the letter
Over and over again.
This “M” is mine and I trace it
From time to time.

I like hands.
I like My hands.
Once young and plump
And then strong and firm
Forever productive
But now a little gentler and weathered

The “M” on my left palm,
Perfect. Symmetrical. A declaration.
The “M” on my right palm.
Not as visible. Sloppy.
A practice stroke.

The same hands that once held my mother’s hand
as we crossed roads and splashed in puddles
The same hands that held a number 2 pencil
Feverishly writing stories and
incorrect math solutions
The same hands that held an M16 rifle
that once held my newborn children
that once or twice or three times
wiped tears from my face
and once or twice or three times
held her hand so firmly two hands became one
now gently tapping out keystrokes

I like the dirt that sometimes gets under my nails
I like the veins that paint the tops of my hands
As they search for oxygen
Under a skin that is dry, cracked, and wrinkled
Each fingernail a slightly different length
A lifetime of biting my nails when I’m nervous
Which I usually am.

Our eyes get a lot of glory,
being the entryways to the soul that they are.
And our ears… our splendid ears.
With all the wonderful sounds we absorb.
And our feet keep us upright under our meat stilts.
And the lungs that expand our chests
So our hearts can pump-pump-pump life into our body

But it’s the hands…
Our expressive, beautifully imperfect hands…
That hold.
That hug.
And build.
That stroke and soothe.
Even if it’s just me that needs the soothing
One traced “M” at a time.