Hands

As much as I’m obsessed with fixing people’s eyebrows, I’m even more obsessed with people’s hands.  No one really know this about me, but I’m incessantly observing hands, watching them, noting how a certain person’s looks.  There are so many variations…and they all reflect their owners. 

There are two people whose hands can never be matched, no one’s hands can be compared to these people’s.  Although their hands are different, they both possess an infinite beauty of the soul which can never be forgotten. 

Tanned, thin, with slightly large knuckles.  The skin is soft, fragrant, and inviting.  The touch is delicate, the palm is smooth, dry, but still supple.  Flesh yields to these hands.  The nails are tough and durable from years of gnawing, but not biting.  Hangnails on a few fingers, but somehow it only increases the beauty.  I’ve watched these hands work ceaselessly to form the figure perfectly.  Slightly salty, but with a taste all their own.  A few rings, a love for art.  Something meditative to watch these hands write.  The gs are formed so strangely.  The writing is not masculine, yet not feminine.  Somewhere in between; yet still always recognizable.  The palm is not small, almost large, but not quite, slightly whiter than the back, it sets off the length and dexterity of the fingers.  The wrinkles in the knuckles; I can see them perfectly.  So many tasks that I’ve seen these hands perform.  The hands are large, but not huge, and flow smoothly up into the forearm.  Small mounds of flesh on the palm, a long line that curves along the thumb, farther down than normal.  Each ring is slightly oversized, although not quite noticeable to the average observer.  Something about the hands that captures the entire personality of this one. 

Long, thin fingers, almost too thin from years of wear.  Soft, flaccid flesh.  The softest skin ever felt.  Layers upon layers of lotion have been pushed into these hands.  Nails are thick, tough, with even more hangnails than the aforementioned.  Skin is so white it’s almost clear.  Veins are visible, but it only increases the wisdom these hands possess.  Writing, poems, stories, a love for words unmatched.  To hold her hand is to hold charity, hold kindness, hold love.  Almost purple under the nail.  I remember these hands so well.  Holding her glasses.  Cold.  The flesh between each finger is almost too large.  Fingertips soft.  Every task yields to these hands, wants these hands, hopes for these hands….these soft, wise hands.  Not large, not small, perfectly medium.  So many tasks left undone, untried.  Feet never touched wet snow.  Less flesh, some lost with age. The knuckles are large and knobby.   These hands were once rough, once tough.  No rings, no jewelry, it only enlivens the sense of peace, of security.  It seems as if the lines have almost blown away with the wind.  Unnoticeable to all others, these hands hold the essence of her spirit.   

Both move their hands with grace, dignity, and purpose.  Both are aware, without knowing it, of the meaning and purpose of the hands.  These hands are never frivolous; never waste an effort; each movement has purpose, has need, has meaning. 

The whole body is beautiful, but the hands capture the soul.

Always,

Afton