The Story in My Palms

“Delicate, slender hands, each with five fingers like thin pencils
of varying heights, standing side by side in quiet harmony. Veins softlyvisible beneath the skin, tinted a gentle green, like a new born sparrow
whose throat glows with color and movement when it swallows. And the
nails, they always reflect her inner state. On the days when she feels
alive, every nail is trimmed, square and neat, uniform like tiny framed
windows of care. When her heart leaps with excitement, ready to go
somewhere special, her nails sparkle, painted to match her dress,
shining like little diamonds. But, the days she drifts away from
herself, when she forgets to glance at these tiny, loyal hands, look
closely then, and you’ll hear them whisper, maybe even scream without
sound. I need your attention. Look, haven’t you noticed? Some of us are
broken — grown too long, and now we’re cracked. And before long, the
girl returns to herself. She gazes at the backs of her hands, where pale
veins draw delicate paths, at the palms lined with mysterious symbols,
at the uneven nails, some tired, and she wonders, Must I always feel
okay to care for my hands? These little hands, they’re powerful
sorcerers. They write, they create, they comfort with every touch. They
hold warmth, and give it too. They squeeze tight before a big exam to
release fear. They dance with grace, with rhythm, with softness. They
hold, they heal, they carry life in gestures. And the girl, emerging
gently from her wandering thoughts, looks once more at her hands, and then
takes a quiet step forward, to care for them, to care for herself.”