These Hands.

These hands have been through a lot.
They are bruised and scarred and scratched.
They are rough around the edges and have the slightest caullouses on the palms from weight lifting.
The right one has a flimsly nail that I just bent off after smashing it on a train seat this morning.
The ring finger has missing skin and a sensitive scab from gardening.

One week ago I had my first manicure in years. But you wouldn't know because the paint chipped within 24 hours.
The most prominent scar on my right hand is a thin slice just below the pinky knuckle after a romp with Burn.
The most prominent scar on my left are the teeth marks from Crash after breaking up the millionth dog fight in my living room.

These hands have been through a lot.
They get pampered with lotion many times a day but it does nothing to save them from my clumsiness.
These hands have used power tools, planted flowers, painted walls, made my life better.
They are strong and capable and precise.

These aren't girlie hands with pretty fake nails and bright polish.
They get dirty. They help. They make shit happen.

These hands played the piano at three years old when I could barely reach an octave.
These hands fit snugly around a baseball bat when I was four.
In grade school they dribbled and shot a basketball and high fived Michael Jordan.
These hands made paintings, did math problems, pet dogs, and fought with my brother.
These hands knocked the braces through a girls chin in High School and held cigarettes before I should.
These hands carried my best friend in college home after a wild frat party.

These hands stopped Crash from careening down the basement stairs when he was too little to walk straight.
These hands grasped Burn tightly when he tried to wriggle free from my arms and fall on his head.
They have bathed and clipped and poked and prodded and healed and comforted my two fur babies.

I gave these hands to my husband in 2010 when we were married.
He put a ring on the left.
These hands have held my dying grandfather, wiped away tears, and held the words of his eulogy.
These hands buried old pets.
These hands embraced my family and friends in pure joy.
They have saluted and celebrated and triumphed and overcome.
They will hold our future baby.
They will age and wrinkle and crack.
But they will be powerful.
They will be graceful and secure.
They will not fail me.
These are my hands.