Hands
These are my hands. I lay them open before you, vulnerable, honest; because you need to see them. Can you see these lines? The creases of hard work and labour, the places where my skin comes together when I clench my palms shut. They are not as familiar to you as you may claim. This is my skin, charred, dry, but stiff and tough. See how powerful these hands are? How many clothes I’ve wrung and how much dough I’ve kneaded, can you tell? Now look closer, dear. Can you notice the gentleness that comes of holding little palms in my large ones? Do you see the softness, the glow of motherhood?
These are independent hands. They have clasped and clutched themselves too much to hold on to other hands. Do not ask for it, dear. These hands only give and give, and don’t know how to take.
Have you noticed the ink spots? Ah, you do notice they’re on the left hand, on the middle finger and the thumb. This is history, love. And history does not wash away with soap and water. The skin pressed in a band on the base of the ring finger is also history. A history you do not want to hear, so you say. A history I am supposed to forget. But love, these hands will never forget. You can’t erase the pressed skin by covering it with another band. It will stay. So don’t ask these hands to forget.
These hands have duties attached to them. Habits and automatic functions. See how they pat the little back, ruffle the soft hair, and aim the spoon of cereal into that wailing mouth with such precision. See how the nails dig into the palm with anger, how they clutch on the sides of a thigh with anxiety, how they clench into fists with fierce control, how they clap with joy, how they wipe away other tears, and weave hair into braids, rubs backs with Vicks, and hold onto rosary beads for comfort . You notice, don’t you? They don’t rest, these hands. They lie in wait to jump and do, to serve, to assist, to make. These are not lazy hands; they are not idle hands. And dear, they can never be passionate hands. See how sensible and responsible they are? How can you expect them to do anything but their duty?
Now you flip these hands over. Here they show you even more. A woman can’t hide the age and handwork from her hands. You know that. These hands are too old. They can’t adapt to another. They are too accustomed to their duties. Life has already molded them when they were soft clay, but now, they’ve hardened and they can’t change. Not even for you. So don’t ask of it.
These hands are not beautiful. They are sculpted and dry, and scarred and are softly giving into folds and wrinkles. The history they tell is beautiful. But you will not hear of it. These hands don’t probe for the future, but caress the past. These hands cannot move on with you. See how odd they look in your palms? You need a matching set, dear. A set of hands as fresh and supple, as adventurous and lively, as eager and passionate as yours. Not these ones. I can’t give you these hands. That would be cruel.
You must understand, they do not seek company, but only to go on doing their duty and then softly breathe into rest. These hands belong only to themselves. Leave them alone to comfort themselves. Don’t reach for them, dear. They will not hold on; they can’t.
