My Hands

Hands.

Think about how much they do. Our hands create, make, soothe, and mend. They caress, cradle...build, squeeze, and heal. They labor and toil.

Hands are miracles. Growing up, I loved my mom's hands; so elegant and slender. I loved my dad's hands because they were always warm.

My hands are not elegant. They are big, strong and always warm like my dad's.

And my hands are aging.

The skin is creping, and I have been neglectful with sunscreen. My pinky is a wee bit crooked, and I have the forever-callus on my middle finger from having grown up in a generation where daily penmanship was everything. (Any other Gen Xers out there still have their writing callus?)

And yet, I think my hands are beautiful although it wasn't always that way. I've grown to love them. At age three, frightened of walking through a dark kiva, it was my best friend's hand I held to feel safe. At age 8, it was my hands that would dial the rotary telephone to call my grandparents to see if I could spend the night.

My hands held my daughter after she was born. And my hands held on to my childhood security blanket while I gave birth.

With my hand intertwined with my dad's, I felt him respond with a squeeze, "yes," when he was in the ICU. "If you can hear me, squeeze my hand." Squeeze.

With my hands, I craft this message of profound gratitude for them. A friend says, "Let your hands be an extension of you heart." Yes.