Sunday, December 24, 2006

To Me, His Hands

I have decided hands can
tell the story of people,
their experiences,
their work, their lives.

I have never seen hands like his.
Never.
The hands of a man that I'm familiar with
are pale and clean and uncalloused.
A little like mine.

His hands,
big, strong, with courage,
are those of a workman,
of someone who earns his livelihood,
of someone, with strength,
who holds on to the faith that
he can create his own destiny,
of someone who is curious and
passionate about exploring the form
of the world that surrounds him.

He shows me life
when he points,
gestures,
touches,
types,
makes,
cooks,
holds,
squeezes,
protects,
strums,
writes (though rarely),
waves ....

The rough edges, cuts and burns,
dirt that has permanently occupied space under his nails,
impenetrably thick, calloused, dark skin, ...
everything that does not belong to me,
everything that is imperfect,
gives me everything.

[Brian, to me, you are perfect.]

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