I always wished
that my hands could be as gentle
as the ones I watched around me.
Elegant and musical,
the hands of those I spent time with
seemed to glide over whatever
they touched.
They were never aggressive
never snatching.
They wanted nothing,
only plucked flowers gracefully
and lifted glasses of lemonade.
They never had to hold fast
to anything
never worried about
the precious things
being taken from them.
My hands have always been
rough and calloused
prepared to lash out
to preserve me and my life.
They are fighting hands,
grabbing hands,
loving hands.
They are made to last
to persevere.
My hands have been exactly what
I needed them to be
my wistful wishes of gentleness
were just that:
wishes of someone who wanted
something different for herself.
But my hands have aided me
like none other,
and I would not exchange them
or change them for anything.
