These are my hands
I had DH take this shot to show off my freshly manicured nails. I look at these hands, and suddenly, I see many things. These are the hands that learned when they were very young, that three squeezes from your uncle's hand means "I Love You". These are the hands that left chocolate milk in my china tea pot and neglected to tell anyone. These are the hands that never really mastered an etch-a-sketch and could not get the hang of a paddle ball. These hands held a paintbrush after school and on Saturday for a fifth-grade teacher taking her own time to help me with art, because she saw something she called "potential".
These are the same hands that mastered Klackers when everyone else was afraid of them. These hands played matchstick poker with my younger brother and his friends and then lined them up and gave them squared up neckline haircuts; because they all had decided to let their hair grow and I didn't want them to be shaggy. These same hands, I'm sorry to say, smoked cigarettes for longer than I will admit to. These hands sewed patches onto all the caps of the local volunteer fire department... simply because. These same hands, also sewed seventy garments in one year for my mom and me to wear to work, and we thought we were "all that" in our homemade outfits. Polyester was so easy to work with, I loved it.
These hands typed and took notes and worked cleaning motel rooms and rang cash registers and even filled car batteries with acid at the auto parts store. These hands have kept rhythm, as my feet moved... to pop, disco, country, alternative, bluegrass and soul.
Fast forward to 1988. These hands trembled in excitement as we stood before the minister at the little wedding chapel and said our "I Do's". Both so in love, but a little scared. For the past 20 years these hands have done so many wonderful things, all with my husband by my side. These hands are often folded in a prayer of gratitude for such a wonderful, wonderful life.
The reason for this little post is that when I looked at the picture of my hands, they looked so mature. Not the smooth, unlined hands that I expect to see when I look down at them. I am not ashamed of these hands. I remember seeing my mom's hands, and my grandma's hands and loving them so much. I would pat their sweet, little hands and be so happy and now when I think about it, that's what I see. The legacy of these hands.
.....OPI's Strawberry Margarita