As old as I am, I’m still bad at math and count on my fingers. That’s okay because these digits that have touched the world, and no one counts that high anyway.
Just yesterday, I was fourteen when I asked my mom if I could wear mascara, and she said, “Let’s start with Vaseline.” So, I applied my faux mascara, using these hands to accentuate my lashes.
These are the same hands that patted my babies’ backs, expecting and grateful for the burp. On other days, I caught projectile puke.
Checking for fever, my hand rested on their brow, doing double duty as comfort and trusty gauge. I could always name the number.
With little hands to hold, I’ve tried to point the way. Did I always know the way? No. But even Google Maps can get lost.
Palm to palm, they help me pray. Sometimes raised in pleading, they’re strong from needing (and kneading).
Now my hands are the innards of a Parisian puppet named Pierre.
I take my hands everywhere.
Today, my veins are like the Four Level Interchange— a map of where my hands have been—north, south, east, west, through a dark tunnel, and out the other side.
I wear my wrinkled hands well.
And that’s a different kind of beautiful—because now, they’re often in a posture of surrender, and more open than ever.
I have grandma hands.