Hands

A bit of something I wrote awhile ago that I just came across again-

I have a strange sort of fascination with hands. I seem to be drawn towards rough hands, experienced hands, hands that never tire. I adore hands that are callused from having seen many days of hard labor. Hands that dominate.

I need a do-er. I need a "build it from the ground up" kind of person. I need hands stained brown with dirt and soil, hands with the strength to grip a hammer, a steering wheel, the strength to wield an instrument of a true days work. I need hands that protect, damp hands that have recently wiped away sweat from a brow with fingernails short and blackened at the tips.

I admire hands that are so incredibly gentle all the same, hands that know the difference between laboring and giving and a loving touch. These hands are the hands that enveloped my tiny fists as a little girl all of the times my daddy took me to the playground, or to ride my bike, or to play volleyball over the speed bump outside of the apartment complex where I grew up.

Now as an adult, a different set on hands but build from the things I love are the hands that ache daily to build and support my family, and now clutch the tiny hands of my sons on their strolls down to the park or adventures in the back yard. These hands hold me until I drift into my nightly sleep and sweep the hair from across my cheek.

I adore those hands.