January 17, 2018

My mom, dad, brother, sister and I. All have hands but none the same. My dad's hands thick and calloused from working all day. My mother's hands the one she types with all day. My father's hands like a cold january night, cold and rough. My mother's hands like a summer morning warm and relaxing.

My hands are mixed in the middle of my two parents, both large and soft, soft like a new pillow, jagged from the jammed fingers from the past. My brothers gross and destroyed, from chewing on his nails when he's nervous. My sisters slippery from the lotions she puts on after every meal.

Each hand has a story and is unique.

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