She has the most beautiful hands I believe I have ever seen. They are small, as small as a dolls. And they are not soft hands. They are rough from her hours in the garden. She keeps her fingernails short and clean. She does not use lotion, says it isn’t good for the skin. I have bought her all natural, unscented lotion but she never opened the bottle. She says her hands should speak of the work and the weather, just like God made them to do. I do not argue with her. I stopped as soon as I left my teenage years behind and developed half a mind. She may look like a china doll, but my mother is an iron ox. Once her mind is made up, there is no changing it. But either way, sometimes I can’t help wishing she would take better care of her little hands.
She had to leave art school because she bought booze for the cute guy next door with her fake I.D. She looked like trouble, shaved hair, belly pierced and undeniably cool. She made horny jokes and wore dark lipstick. She had long lovely legs and she was overtly comfortable with her hips. She was a film student and she was good at it. She had her own camera and she cared it proudly around, slung over her round strong shoulders. You could tell by looking at her that she was into guys...mostly. When she was kicked out none of us were surprised but we still all cried. Especially when we saw her cry. The night she left we watched her film on the wall while sitting on the lawn. It was of hands, hands moving slowly, hands touching and holding and melding, the curves and lines and palms. They pressed and kissed, for yes, hands can kiss. They moved over each other and under each other and I had to turn away, for up to that moment, I had not known that hands could be so sensual, so sexual. But she had, which was why she was the sort of student to be kicked out of art school, while I barely made any friends.
He likes to pick up my hands, compare sizes. He always has, since he began to grow taller, till I could no longer wrestle him and pin him to the ground. He is in complete marvel of his body, watching his arms and chest strengthen. He takes his shirt off whenever he can, the proud peacock. He struts with the plumage of a teenage boy. And he picks up my hands whenever I sit next to them. He peers at their tininess,wraps his fingers over mine, exclaims in delight every time. His hands are long and thin. His hands help him dribble the balls, carry his surfboard, he hangs car keys from them loosely. My hands serve their purposes too, but they do not reach a scale on a piano and he wonders at this fact, proud of his growing body. He is proud to watch himself tower over me. I try to remain silent to the fact.