Hands

Tiny finger, tiny nails. Practically of no use,

only to create a sense of wonder in others, exclaiming

'Oh look! how tiny her hands are!'.

After a while, tiny hands trying to keep up with the curiosity of the mind,

trying to grab everything within reach

and wanting to grab everything which is not.

These tiny hands tightly holding on to the toughened bigger ones,

only taking in the gentle touch and not the crusty callouses

while you learn how to walk.

Hands, not so tiny anymore,

full of bruises from all the times you fell while playing,

when you fought with your siblings,

when you tried chopping vegetables for the first time.

Hands, then slowly flipping pages,

giving time to the brain to process the print on the paper.

Stained with ink, writing and jotting

in the hopes that the mind will remember what the hands scribbled.

Hands that wipe your tears that no one else would see,

that hold you tight when no one notices you fall apart.

The same ones picking up shards of your broken heart.

Hands that for the first time clasps someone specials hands,

holds them, caresses them, lifts them up and then lets them go

because the tremble of insecurity makes it hard to hold on.

Hands, now bruised and calloused from all the hardships,

which now hesitate to hold any other,

which keep working no matter what,

which hold you up no matter how many times you fall,

which help you hold close the handpicked, if you would, ones,

which help you build a better future.

To those hands I am forever grateful.