Hands. My family tells a story with theirs. Dad’s hands have a warmness like Florida sand slipping through your palms. Each finger possessing a perfectly clipped nail like they were constructed with exact precision. Susan’s hands are thin fragile glass with a newly placed ring on them. And now aren’t only ours to handle. Mom’s are delicate. They say she is caring with a compassionate grasp. They comfort patients, co-workers, and family. Each palm telling where they have been and where they want to go.  
      

But my hands, my hands, like french manicured finger tips, like those of a ring model, tell a faceless story because they explain so much more. A story of methodically moving keys, hospital sanitizer, and unscented lotion. Hands that are easy to put an IV into from the plumpness of my veins. Each digit unsafe from future laceration. Ones who smell of powder from plastic hospital gloves. And hope to wear the EMT purple hued gloves someday soon. Seasoned hands that know how to put a moving box together.  Ones who don’t just yet know their exact place in the world. Hands that are stressed, moving on, and going off to college. But, I continue clicking each key on the black and white keyboard...no care in the world. These are where they’ve been and where they want to go some day.