The Story Of My Hands

My hands tell the stories of who I am and where I have been. Not literally as such although, wouldn’t that have a beautiful vulnerability to it? That being said, my hands do seem to narrate me better than I ever could.

I hold both hands out in front of me, and it is like I have never thought to look at them before. They tremble slightly, kissed by the cold having been released from the cocoon of my sleeves. The writer's bump has permanently found its home on my right-hand ring finger, the perfect place for a writer's node unless you hold your pen correctly! Meanwhile, the midnight blue nail polish (chipped of course) reminds me that I ought to stop and rest at the next opportunity that I get.

Turning my hands over, I stretch them out in front of me with my palms facing up. I see the deep distinctive lines before I take a moment to see the detail in my fingertips. In the stillness, I acknowledge how incredible it is that my fingerprints are unique to me - it is no wonder that it feels as if my hands could tell my story.

I lift my hands to my face, holding them together and pressing them against the bridge of my nose as I breathe warmth onto them. After inhaling deeply, I relax my shoulders and my hands drop down, and thus they begin writing again.