One of
the first things I notice about a person is their hands. It may seem strange,
but you can tell a lot about a person from their hands. The shape of their
hands tells something about their genetics, how they cut and possibly polish
their nails gives some insight into how they think. All the scrapes, scars,
paint remains, freckles… each conveys a message. Here’s what I mean:
See my fingers? They’re long and skinny. I get that from my
dad. One of my hands can make the “live
long and prosper” sign and the other can’t. Why?
Because my mom can’t and my dad can—I inherited one of each of their hands. My
nails are pretty much as short as they can get. Again, why? I play cello,
and it’s hard to play your instrument with long nails. Same reason why I hardly
ever paint my nails: it’s impractical because I’m just going to cut them again
in a few days. What about those scars on
your thumb and index finger? One happened when I was “helping” (being used
very loosely, I wasn't doing much) a friend fix my bike. Something snapped, hit
my finger, and now I have a scar there. The other is from the wire on a wreath
that I scraped my finger on at work. I
see.
I love
all the stories that hands tell. The tales of hard work and long days coming
from rough, worn, and slightly dirty hands. The girl whose nails are continuously
red in memory of her brother. The calluses of musicians or those who work out
frequently. The ink smudges on the hands of lefties and avid writers. The
broken and sprained fingers of athletes, putting their all into the game. All
these are memories wrapped up in bodily form.
And not only do hands tell stories,
they also create them. Handshakes confirm deals and affirm friendships. Folded hands display a sign of reverence in prayer. Hands
curled into fists both fight for justice and bring oppression. Holding hands expresses
love, without a word. Hands reach out touch the lives of those in need.
