Hands

Everyone's hands tell a story. Each time I meet a person I always look at their hands. Perhaps this is odd. But don't you ever wonder what those hands have done or where they have been? We work with our hands. We play with our hands. We serve with our hands. We love with our hands. They are both unique and universal all at the same time. No person has the same lines, scars or cuts on their hands. Everybody's hands do something different. I love that.

My dad's hands tell the story of a man who has worked hard. As a little girl I loved to hold his hand. Then there was abuelito's hand. His hands felt like a vaquero. Rough from the whip and the leather. Strong and tender all at the same time. Both dad's and abuelito's hands were both brown and were in even rough in some of the same places, but they still felt entirely different. They each told a different story.

I don't know what my hands' stroy is yet, but I'm working on it. I often wonder if the your hands' story is something that you get to choose yourself. I suppose that in part yes, but in a larger part no.