Wednesday, December 12, 2012

Hands That Feel Like Home

This is a love letter.

But not to a person... only a part of a person. A part of this person. The part of this person that physically embodies all of the qualities that the owner loves as a whole. Her hands.

My hands.

These hands.

Only now am I realizing how much more they mean to mean than even my eyes which I guard fervently as if made of precious gemstones. These hands instead are scarred and yet still sacred. Neglected and yet the most loved body part of all. The only really, for which I have not at one point or another given myself grief. They have never felt inadequate. I have never looked at them and thought that they were too big, too small, too fleshy or round or otherwise wrong.

These hands have never betrayed me. They've always done what's asked of them even when that very thing was self-destructive in nature. Even when I used them to hurt myself... they were still, in those moments, tentative, apologetic... even unexpectedly gentle. I have used them to do bad things that is sure but though they obeyed they always had in them a bit of beautiful defiance.

They have also been responsible, to a point, for everything I've done of which I am proud. They are the vessel that transfers these words from my my mind into readable text... on paper, on a screen. With a keyboard or with a pen. They at times make music... and at others they caress. They paint detailed intricate designs on faces of women who long to feel beautiful... including the one to which they are by association attached. They change diapers, stroke toddler curls and sometimes with a tinge of reluctance and love they spank. These hands they love the dirt... almost as much as they love running water. One on of these hands is a finger and on that finger resides the most important piece of jewelery I will ever own. The other is connected directly through bone and skin and blood to a stretch of embedded ink that reminds me who I am and to whom I belong. Sometimes these hands are well nourished and aptly decorated... but mostly they are slightly dry and sporting cracked nail polish.

But in spite of what the world may see. In spite of the things they are and are not capable of. I have never seen them as anything less than perfect. And anything less than mine. I may chew my hangnails and I may rip torn fingernails away with my teeth... but there is no part of my body that has ever felt more me.

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