Ode to My Hands

by Lilah Thomas

Here are my hands. Like my mother’s, but with my father’s fingernails. The ones that grow over the edges when they aren’t clipped regularly. Though, his are tough like old leather, scratchy and sliced, unpleasant. Mine were once callused too, from the harsh bark of the maple trees. The one I’d climb into each evening, the creases of her branches decorated with old coins and seashells. I’ve grown now. My hands were once soft, infantile, the same hands my sister once held in her own clammy palms. The time when they hadn’t touched much yet. The time when my fingers were small enough to fit in the cracks of the old wooden crib.

Here are the ways I’ve held my own hands: My right thumb. It’s quite long, thick at the knuckle though slim where it connects to the rest of my hand. It’s smooth and sloped, the fingernail never gets too long. My first true sense of comfort was in that thumb. Sucking my thumb, which I did my entire childhood, was just one of the ways I’ve been able to hold my own hand. The weight on my tongue, the warmth on my thumb, the way my brain went soft. I remember the sudden comfort, immediate relief, immediately soothed by the gentle rocking of the muscle in between my teeth. The way that now my hand will always be altered because of it. Right Thumb will always be longer than the other. The pallet of my mouth will always slope upward, the perfect cradle, like the ways that the rocks beneath waterfalls ridge from the streams of water. The roof of my mouth a beach rock, my thumb the indent. Permanently and forever altered. Altered by the quick need for peace I found I so often needed. In the small corners of my elementary school’s library, on the firm mattress of my childhood bed, while watching a movie, reading (when I quit sucking my thumb I had to quit reading for a while, they just came hand in hand (ironic, I know)). Always reminded that each of those practices became a way I once held my own skin. I wish for it now, to hold my hand in my mouth once more, though I paid too much for orthodontics.

I hold my own hands behind my back, when I’m in conversation, when my photograph’s being taken, when I question if I wasn’t holding them behind me, what I would be doing with them. I hold them when I shove my fists into the back pocket of my jeans. I commonly find myself in that pose whilepainting. Then, I hold my own hand. Well, my hips do. The same hips that hold the jeans that hold my hand. And when you think about it really, my hands are always being held by my wrists and my elbows and my shoulders which are held by my ribs and then my hips and then my knees, then my feet. My whole body is held by my brain, by my subconscious, by muscle. So, I have never lived a day without something, someone (myself), holding my hand.

Here is a list of things I have actually held in my hands: Bread dough, as I’ve kneaded it on the green counters of my mother’s kitchen. Many babies, many toddlers. I’ve held the fingers of romantic partners, of friends, of family. I’ve held my clothes and other people’s, if it’s folding them or throwing them to the floor, it doesn’t matter. Grasshoppers, ladybugs, butterflies, japanese beatles, spiders even. I’ve held the paddle of a kayak. I’ve held small handfuls of the ocean. I held the head of my dog after she passed to kiss her goodbye. I’ve held the door for people, I’ve also grabbed a doorknob to slam a door in someone’s face. I’ve held tightly to the lap bar of a roller coaster, screaming with excitement. My cellphone. A pen, a pencil, marker, paintbrush. I’ve held a large glob of clay before turning it into something I can drink from. I’ve held a warm plate heavy with a home cooked meal. I’ve held a packed bag, I’ve held the excitement of going somewhere new. I’ve held myself, as I sleep, or cry, or whenever I’m lonely. I’ve held my own hands.

The hands that wrinkle at each knuckle, jagged skin at my cuticles, chipping nails, sweaty palms. The hands that I learned how to write with. The hands that showed me how to work, how to make something, how to show someone I care. The hands that get tan in the summer and pale in the winter, though they are always darker than my face. The hands that look like my mothers, and her mothers, and her mother before that. The hands that have held all the places I’ve been and everyone I’ve met. These are my hands.

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