I’ve been thinking lately about hands, and specifically how many contradictory things they are capable of doing. They are at once smooth and rough, capable of gripping slippery objects, yet soft enough to brush lightly. They hold blood in, but will absorb other fluids. In an instant they can be strong enough to break a man’s face and in the next soft enough to caress a woman. Dextrous enough to make the most minute manipulations, and yet then pick up boulders. They can tell someone to come closer, or to go away. We use them daily, yet they are so fragile.
I like my hands. They suit me well. They do what I ask and hardly complain. Sometimes I’m rough on them, but I take care of them afterwards.
That’s all, I guess.