Thursday, February 9, 2012

My Hands


I love the feeling of wind between my fingers on a warm day
And sifting sand between them on the beach of my childhood
And shaking the hands of old friends, new friends
Strangers who will become friends or remain strangers
I like it when my hands are clean, and then become dirty from work and from play
I like every callus
Every cut
Every bruise
Every scar.
I like the rough patches and soft smooth patches
I like every freckle, birthmark, and blemish.
I like every part of them for they are my hands; unique to only me.
They are strong when I need to be
And they are soft and understanding when someone needs my reassurance.
They enjoy the touch of others, but sometimes they just wish to be alone.
Everything I have been through they have been through too.
I can always rely on them, even when I don’t quite know what to do
And I will always be able to rely on them until the day I die
Because they are my hands
They are me
And our journey together has just begun.
There will be many more times I will feel the wind between my fingers
Many more days to sift sand between them
Many more memories that I will someday forget but my hands will always remember.

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