9:30 p.m. - 2016-05-23
Hands
Deeply sliced a finger today on the edge of an envelope. The postmaster dropped some liquid bandage in it, but the blood pushed through and out the coating.
My hands are so scarred, burns, stitch marks, some from things I don't remember. Without my reading glasses my hands look like they are draped in a vail of spiderweb, but upon closer inspection all that appear are creases and ripples of too very tired tools.
Not even my new little ring complements my aged hands now. I use to have beautiful hands, even got asked to model them. But that was a long time ago, and these hands have traveled miles since.
They've clung tightly to cliffs along desert walls, saving me from becoming coyote food.
They have turned translucent white frozen in arctic chills while forgetting mittens and digging out snow caves.
They helped pull my new borns soft, damp bodies to my breast after I had them.
Given pleasure to the ones I loved.
Lost black fingernails after being crushed by objects while moving furniture.
Opened with a scalpel, bones pulled apart and put back together.
And, after all that they still do as I ask!
