Hands Full of Memories

                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.