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Hands Poem
I was once told that the scars on your body tell the places you’ve been.
When I heard this I was little and didn’t have many scars.
Now when I look at my hands I can remember all the places I’ve been.
The one on my left middle finger says:
I wish you had looked where you were throwing your hand when you tried to catch that pumelo.
Another on the same finger says:
Remember the time you were trying to carve that spoon and missed with your knife, that was so much fun.
One on the palm of my hand speaks up:
I really wish you had let that glass fall to the floor.
I don’t know if you remember this, but when you tried to catch it, it broke and sliced open your hand.
The mud caked on my finger nails says:
Yesterday you went biking, and hiked in the woods.
As I grow old my scars will fade.
As will my memories.
My calices will grow over any scars and when I look at my hands I will think.
Every thing I have done in my entire life is recorded on my hands,
Buried under scars and calices.
Then I will look at my children’s hands so soft and new.
And wonder what will the do.
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