Hands

Hands. They keep coming to mind. I am fascinated and drawn to them. Their beauty, strength. They have so much to say. They speak loudly and silently. Hands are at times intimate, sometimes they hold a face, sometimes they scrub a floor. They brush teeth, turn on directional signals on a car, click a remote, write a blog, caress the bangs of a child, make beautiful music, build cathedrals, get paper cuts. They paint walls, canvases, fingernails. They are chapped, wrinkled, veined, smooth. Warm, cold. Small, large. Each one is a connection to a history, a heart. They slap, pull triggers, make the sign of the cross. They snap; they hold wedding rings. I love my hands, and I love yours.