The Hands of Those I Love

The Hands of Those I Love

I remember growing up and hearing my mother play “Daddy’s hands,” on the radio and I always found it funny because neither of us were raised by our fathers. We would sing that song as if we knew the feeling of having our father pull us in for a hug, or holding us when we had a nightmare, but neither of us knew what it actually felt like. In a way, we did because we were raised by the same man, my great grandfather, but the both of us knew it wasn’t the same. He was a great man who did everything he could for the both of us, but there was always a pit in the bottom of my stomach that would grow deeper and deeper every time he tried to fill the void my dad had left. My great grandfather was never meant to play the role of my dad, but I respect him for trying.

When the song would play, I would imagine what my dad’s hands would look like while they opened the door for me or even spanked me for being mean, but they were nothing like I imagined. When I met him, there wasn’t an epic embrace followed by a story about how he was sent away to fight for the country and was missing in action, but was giving everything he had in order to get back home to me. Instead, my dad was a part of some ragtag street gang and he called himself “Weasel,” and he had that tattooed along one of his hands. On the other is “304” on his knuckles.

He had spent eight years of my life gathering the courage to even say hello, as if a small child was intimidating enough to keep him away. He has a few other “amazing” qualities, but his hands always conjures that song in the back of my head, and it reminds me of how alone I felt as a child. I get annoyed at thinking of what it would have been like to have him tuck me in, and all of the reasons he’d list for why he didn’t. Therefore, I never looked too closely at my dad. He looked too much like me and looked too much like abandonment.

My mother’s hands were always slender, petite, and flawless. Except for a gaping scar that connects her palm to her pinky finger. When she was sixteen, she was walking her dog and it tripped her and she fell, cutting her hand open on a rock. The doctors had to take skin from her legs in order to repair the wound. When I was younger, I used to put tape on my hand in the spot that her scar was in order to imagine what the scar felt like.

I don’t remember my grandmother’s hands. I’m sure that they were gorgeous and tough from the years of yardwork that they did with her. I like to imagine her holding my grandfather, my uncles, my mother, my brother, and me as a baby. Imagine her stroking our cheeks as she would rock back and forth to sing us to sleep, and it brings me comfort. I remember her showing me how to plant trees around the house and her taking me over to the apple tree for picnics, where she would sing Amazing Grace to me. I wish I remembered more about her.

Whenever I’m anxious, I see my grandfather’s hands. They flash like lightning over mine and it breaks my heart. They were wrinkled and soft. He used to rub things with his fingers until they were worn down and smooth. I wish he would have been able to do that to me. Just squish me between his thumb and pointer finger and polish me until there was nothing bad left. He was missing the tip of his thumb because he cut it off in a woodworking accident. He had packed the tip of his thumb into a cup of ice and froze it, but didn’t go to the doctor to reattach it. He just liked the knowledge of keeping all of himself somewhere he could find it.

Sometimes, when I look at my hands, they feel foreign. As if they don’t belong to me, but to my mother. Although mine are chubbier than hers, they look so much the same. Every curve and bump and vein is just like my mom’s. This makes me feel like I own the knock off version of my mother’s hands.

But then I think of where my hands have gone and what they have done. I think of all the times I held my grandmother’s hands as we woke up and tiptoed through the house at two in the morning to make cookies. I think of how I spent hours on end drawing pictures for people on their birthdays because I didn’t have the money for a gift but still wanted to give them something. I think of the scar on the center of my palm and how I got it from my brother shoving an RC car’s antenna through it because he didn’t want me to go to school that day. And I think about how my hands look when they are engulfed by my baby’s tiny little fingers, and I forget that they look like anyone else’s.

My baby’s hands have nothing wrong with them. Ten fingers and ten toes, all as perfect as they are able to be. They are so chubby and small, that she grabs things in such odd ways that never fails to amuse me. It’s as if she is pointing at the thing she is picking up and using her thumb as a claw. The rest of her fingers are forgotten. I think the moment she held my hand, I wanted mine to be perfect for her to remember. I don’t want her to see my hands as they swipe down to strike her. I don’t want her to see my hands shut the door to a police officer’s car as he takes her to another foster home.. I want my hands to do for her what no else’s were able to do for me. I want her hands to travel all over the world. For them to hold her up in the very same way that mine did. I think of her hands in the future and how they may end up looking like mine, and her grandmother’s, and how I want her to form her own identity with the hands we all share. I want her to hold the hands of her future spouse and feel the freedom of being in love. I can’t wait for her to use those hands to high-five me, and to beat the shit out of the bullies she faces.

I never knew the impact that hands had on me while growing up. I never thought about the hands that helped to shape who I am as a person. I never considered what our hands are forever reaching for in ourselves and in others. Hands, and the people attached to them have pushed themselves through the years, holding onto something, grasping for more. I want to remind myself and the people reading this and my child to never forget to grasp for more.