Hands

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Let me give you a hand, a hand up, hand-me-down, a hand out, handshake, hand me that, will you? Hands. So much about a person can be told by their hands. Soft, rough, working, calloused, dry, cracked, tender, red, scarred, slender, beautiful hands. Our occupation, hobbies, and even our very desires are written on our hands. What do yours do? Massage the grit out of a loved one’s tired shoulders? Sculpt clay into delicate figures, or sculpt young minds for a better tomorrow? Dance over an instrument, or scratch works onto paper?  So much passes between hands: cups, pencils, books, blankets, tickets, money. But how often is physical contact made? Often, we position ourselves so as to not touch others, even briefly. We fear connection. Hands have the great power to heal, or to harm. Violence may be done by that comforting hand on your shoulder. Hand in hand we may prance towards our destruction. But connection through touch is a potent and tangible expression of love. Our hands define who we are and sometimes who ache to be. A hand resting at the side may be yearning for connection with stifled cries.