The back of my hand

by jexmas on October 28, 2013

I look at the back of my left hand, the one that has done most of the work for most of my life. This hand does not lie and it rarely lies still. Long narrow fingers gesture and point like dancers in a slow ballet. Or huddle together, curled into a fist, holding on tight to keep the rest of me together.

The pad on my thumb rubs the pads on my fingers in soothing, rhythmic movements. My nails are smooth and polished. My thumb glides over them like woolen socks on a polished floor.

The skin on this hand has thinned and wrinkled. Veins, like rivers flowing and meandering from wrist to knuckle, pulse slowly with each movement. Knuckles form a rugged landscape with folds and creases formed by geologic time. Bones and ligaments forever tied together in a complex structure of joints.

This hand speaks for me in ways that defy words. This hand expresses depths felt but not spoken or acknowledged any other way.

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