It’s all in the hands


What do you think of when you think of hands?

I don’t know about you, but I tend to take my hands for granted. Yes, they’re an essential part of my body and I appreciate them when I need to write, pick up a fork, brush my teeth or start my car. Aside from performing everyday tasks, I don’t think about them very much. I assume that when I need them they will be there. I guess I need to count my blessings, as so many people do not have the use of their hands.

My best friend forever (Nancy) got me thinking about hands recently. After my Mom’s passing, she told me one of the things she remembered about her was her hands. I thought this was such an interesting observation especially since they stood out in my mind. She had strong hands. When I caught a glimpse of them I knew (even from a young girl) they bore the signs of a hard worker. Her prominent veins stood proud and high above her dry, chapped flesh. They seemed to have a detailed road map etched into her skin. She never used hand cream . . . probably didn’t see the point. She was born on a Saturday and my Grandmother always said Saturday’s child was “always a worker,” no truer words were ever spoken.

Now that she is gone I think more about her hands than I ever have my whole life. I often look down at my own hands and make mental comparisons. It’s interesting to see the changes in hands as we age. To think that the hands that held me for the first time as an infant are the very same ones that held on to me as she walked me down the aisle when I was married. This is another reminder how small things connect us in such a large way, and give us something to hold on to forever.

This gives new meaning to the slang expression, talk to the hand.

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