Hands that remember

I looked down. Weathered, broken, old. The thoughts that came to my mind upon initial glance. Then, hardened, beautiful, strong. Give your mind a second chance to form an opinion.

My hands were once meant for typing, and caressing faces, touching paintings in an abandoned art gallery secretly, sneakily. Frenzied tearing of clothing, sweat laden palms driving frenzied, haphazard pleasure.

Now, my hands are for painting, for holding babies, for preparing meals. Through all of the mundane, and the slightly obtuse- my Hands let me create, and form, and support my life as it was. And as it is now. They remember what they’ve done, and are forever celebrating with touch.