And I’m thinking about my fingerprints — well, rather, my weathered hands, and how they’ve skipped right over my mother’s and look more like my grandmother’s each day. How I realized lately that I try to crop my photos so you don’t see that. How they shock me with all the sun and soil and strain they’ve seen. With how much they’ve carried.
And so, a poem:
These hands have held babies and stones;
Touched elders and lovers, and trembled with fears;
Kneaded bread, and cradled generations of phones;
And clutched each other in prayer on bended knee in tears.
These hands have shook, and gripped, and clapped;
Embraced so, so many beginnings and ends;
Beared witness, written books, and figured out how to adapt;
While shoveling dirt to grow food, and bury friends.
I finally understand these hands,
That have held tight, and let go, and trusted the Divine;
They now carry me to new challenges in different lands,
And a future that will one day close the door on mine.