Hands

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Hands
By: Katarina M. Lee


All of my friends have different hands. Brianna has pleasantly plump hands, as she likes to describe them that are always peeling at the surface. They are active hands, everyday searching for something new to hold. Laylah’s hands will make you look twice. Abused hands, cuts and scars run along the tops and in between her fingers that contrast with her pale skin and beautiful rings. Alexis has the hands of a pianist, her boney fingers gliding along the edges of the notes, creating a sweet tune. The discolored look to them does not make her hands seem any less graceful. Chloe’s hands are like the seasons. New scribbles and scrawls all over her palms, her chewed nails covered in bright paint, and the noise from the bangles that make your ears ache. Clank-clank-clank.

But my hands, my hands, the hands of a toddler, those petite hands that they call small, were the smell of my mother’s strong perfume I used to spray on when I matched my hands. They play hide-and-seek with everyone they meet, not daring to come out of my sleeves. Mother’s perfume, hide-and-seek, and my toddler tiny hands.





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