Your Hands
You might think it’s strange.
But along with my seemingly awkward gestures, and my dazed expression…
You’d never know that I was paying attention.
Paying attention to the way your hands rested in your lap.
As if they were waiting for another perfect mold to keep it safe, warm, protected.
Your hands…
Pink, ivory, delicate.
Soft, course, sturdy.
A dark scar bruising your right ring finger.
Your tiny fingers in a knot, looking for release.
Folded like the pages of the Bible. Holy, yet unspoken.
I just want to know what it feels like to have a hand like yours.
Do you think people would assume that I was delicate too?
Fragile? Feminine? Dainty like a flower?
Why are women so defined by the texture of their hands?
Why am I glanced over because we held hands that one time and yours were clammy, mine were rough, and you looked at me.
You looked at me and it was not a look of conviction, nor a look of disgust.
It was a look so much worse.
The one expression that let me know that I was simply not enough.
No. Bath and body works just can’t fix the callousness from my steel guitar.
Or the dry palms from scrubbing bathroom floors.
The things I’ve had to do with these hands have been strenuous, crafty, and beautiful.
You might think it’s strange, but I just love you for your hands.
Pink, ivory, delicate.
And his.
Clammy, dark, indifferent.
You’d never know that I was paying attention.
Copyright © Lisa Ebehardt | Year Posted 2014
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