Hands Poem

April 28, 2010
By , Loveland, OH
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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