Everyone in my family has different hands. For each of us, the shape, feel and scars on our hand tell stories about ourselves. My mom’s hands are like slightly cool, smooth butter. They’re soft from the hand lotion that she puts on after she washes them and are always somewhat cold like mine are. My mom’s hands are like strong enough to handle anything that comes her way. She’s uses them often to make the family recipes her mother taught her and to comfort us when we are feeling upset. My hands look like my mom’s. They are also capable, I have more calluses than she does and mine aren’t as soft because I never remember to use hand lotion. I have a scar on a finger on my left hand where I got stitches when I was two and my finger was broken and cut open when it was slammed in a door. I have tiny scars from cat scratches and bird bites and a very obvious writer’s bump. My hands are very practiced in turning book pages, but are challenged, unable to text faster than about ten words per minute. My little brother also inherited mom’s hand. His hands are strong from years of sports, especially lacrosse and they are very agile when it comes to his video games.
My dad’s hands are big, somewhat blocky. My dad’s hands are calloused like the bottoms of our dogs’ feet, from working in his shop in the basement with woods, making cherry-wood cabinets for our kitchen. His hands have scars where he was injured while doing the woodworking he loves so much and from the experiments he does with the equipment at his work. My dad’s hands have been missing a wedding ring ever since he lost it when I was little (Mom was very annoyed) and he has a small dot on his finger from the tests in the hospital when he was diagnosed with cancer.