Mama, Papa, Brother, and I have hands of the same flesh and different stories.
Papa’s hands are two leather gloves, sun-bleached and calloused. The grooves in his hands are like the cracks in our old oak table – the one Mama will serve dinner on. Papa’s hands are like an August sunset, warm and comfortable.
Mama’s hands are two balloons, ruddy and as plump as cherries. Mama’s hands look like plastic and hit like iron. Mama’s hands are like nostalgia, bittersweet and confused.
And Brother, well, his hands are razor blades, sharp and quick. Scabbed knuckles, thick from fighting, his hands are two strong shovels building castles out of nothing. Brother’s hands are like eggs, fragile but hard.
My hands … my hands are tangled laces, young and messy. Moving with uncertainty, they’re freshly born dancers, stumbling through life. My hands are like strings of grass, wispy and weak.
Mama, Papa, Brother, and I have hands of different stories and the same flesh.