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.