Everyone has hands; it’s a little weird if you don’t. But someone’s hands can say a lot about who they are.

My two sisters’ hands are like black widow spiders, intimidating and dangerous if you see them up close, but from far away they are harmless and even show some beauty.

My oldest brother’s hands are like ninjas: strong, with five different weapons consisting of his fingers (he knows many gestures to use).

My other brother’s are lifeless and hardly ever used. It’s as if his whole body is alive and well while his hands are zombies.

My parent’s hands are shields: put up to my face and blocking my wise words.

Then there are my hands. I would say they’re like little criminals, getting me in trouble for the things they help me do.