 |
 |
HANDS Have you ever really looked at your hands? Such funny looking things hanging on the end of your arms. Useful, no doubt, but so strange looking. For some reason, many of my favorite memories involve hands hands reaching down, tucking a blanket close around my chin tousling my hair, and making me feel so warm and safe And later, hands reaching out so shyly to hold mine, just before I got my first kiss, worried that I would do something wrong sweat running down my palms in nervous anticipation I believe there is one set of hands for each of us not the ones we are born with, but the ones which are able to touch us so deep inside - soft, so warm, capable of giving such pleasure or causing so much pain. Hands holding our hands, walking together in the moonlight making you feel so warm and loved Later, a soft hand slipping a ring on my finger seen now only in an old picture put away, like the ring I used to wear but bringing such bittersweet joy, even now Hands gently touching skin, In the middle of the night, Raising goose bumps, but feeling so warm and nice. And memories of another hand I loved, clinched in anger, striking my face hurting my heart, so much more than the physical pain it caused but there is one last set of hands, gently touching me, when the medicine wears off and the monster inside me emerges twisting my body into some stranger’s, and leaving me trapped inside but this set of hands doesn’t leave and doesn’t flinch from what the disease leaves me showing the world a rough set of hands, calloused from life and raising her children and working two jobs to support them but hands so soft and sweet meant for me only, to touch me when I am down and hold me when I am up because the nicest part of holding someone’s hands is that they are holding yours too and hands make two separate people a single couple so nice, those special hands