Hands. Five fingers, 14 knuckles, and five nails. Some are tanned, some are fair, some have wrinkles, and some are soft and dimpled. We wave with them, we greet with them. Deal-making handshakes, secret handshakes, high fives, and fist pumps.
I hold my child's hand crossing the street, I pinky swear that I will bake her favourite cookies. I pinch her cheek and tap her nose.
How many times have I created something beautiful with my hands? We craft, draw, paint, cut, eat, and drink with them. We knead dough, form clay, sculpt and turn pottery.
You can tell a lot from someone's hands.
Worn hands from age, from weather and washing. Mechanic's and welder's hands with permanent oil marks in their nails. Wounds from tools under a workman's lazy eye. Medics who wash away germs, dishwashers in steaming hot water each hour. Housekeeps who sleep wearing gloves and hand lotion.
They are an extension of our looks. Pretty nails, long and red, or trimmed nails, conservative and clean. Nail biters, ingrown nails, and dry, chipped nails.
Rings galore, or one simple wedding band. Or perhaps the remaining tan line of one.
Scolding finger, pointing finger, ring finger, pinky finger, swearing finger, sucking fingers (first 2 or one thumb). We salut to our soldiers, hold our hearts during allegiance, and raise them to praise our Lord.
Shadow puppets, rabbit ears, talking hand, and an entire signing language.
Teeny tiny newborn hands, and large, grown man hands.
We rub them, snap with them, clap with them, wave them to the music. We mitten them, carry with them, pet with them, and push and pull with them.
We love with them. We fight with them.
Imagine yourself without hands. Like the man on our street who will only nod to you when you wave hello. His hands are replaced with metals clamps. Yet he drives his van, he cares for his yard and home, and enjoys life with his family. He is also a fantastic furniture refinisher. His only worry, that I know of, is that he may scare the children.
Or the boy born with a defect in his fingers. A sweet, sweet boy, who manages quite well in everything the other children do, without the freedom of all of his digits. The other children hold his hands during circle games, and help him put his mittens on. How long will it be before they won't hold his hands anymore?
Oh, the things we take for granted! How I love my hands.
In stories they are made of scissors and hooks, are seven-fingered, broken and mended, invisible, removed, and formed into a V.
And of course, in the Great Book, they were nailed. The ultimate Potter. He touched, mended, healed, lifted, praised, fed, nurtured, prayed and rebuked with his hands. And then were wounded.
Hands. They have to be one of the most used part of our bodies. Except maybe the tongue - but that's another story. How do you use yours?
