My Hands


Someone noticed my hands today. She commented that I had several faded scars, and in particular, scars on my wrists. She gave me a strange look and I just gave her a smile. I feel no need to explain myself or my life; where I’ve been or what I’ve done.

My hands bear witness of trials and triumphs. My hands defy my age and are a testimony that no matter what has gone on in my life, I am still young at heart.

I’m not afraid to lend a hand, to applaud you, to shake your hand, to hold your hand, to high-five and fist bump you, to pat you on your back, and to wipe away your tears.

My hands can even defend me. I can slap you across the face, punch you in the stomach, or flip you off.

I can draw and paint with my hands, I can cook, I can sew, and I can make a living all with my hands.

I can even use my hands to give you a massage, to run my fingers through your hair, to stroke you hard and soft, to touch you so you know you’ve been touched, to scratch my nails down your back.

My hands can do many amazing things.