Hands, Hands, Hands

hands

There are people who have fetishes and then there are people who just pay more attention to a certain body part. I’d have to say that I notice hands.

When I meet someone and he/she shakes my hand, I look and notice my new acquaintance’s hands. Are the fingers long and thin? Short and stubby? Are the nails long or short? If it’s a man and he has “female” looking hands, I assume he has a job that doesn’t require much finger strength. A woman with dirt under her unpainted nails? I wonder if she’s a gardener . . . possibly herbs, my personal favorite thing to grow.

Hands say so much. I look down as I type and see wrinkles in mine. I see veins and red polished fingernails that need touching up. My hands say I have washed them many times in my forty-nine years of life. They say they belong to a short, full-figured woman who likes to look pretty. My hands have inner secrets, though; don’t yours?

My hands have done things they shouldn’t have. They’ve also done heroic things that few know about. They have patted the back of an infant, soothed a dying friend, and embalmed an autopsied murder victim (I’m a Funeral Science major). My hands have planted gardens, petted kittens, and made large pots of soup. They’ve scrubbed bathrooms, scraped icy windshields, and wiped tears from the eyes of a loved one in pain.

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Hands may not be the windows into the soul as the eyes are said to be but they carry out the work that needs to be done every day of our lives.

I love people’s hands. They’re wise and wacky, sad and happy, old and young – everything all at once. It’s hard to hide who we are. It shows in our beautiful hands.

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