hands.

she took my hands in hers and said to them, "you have lived a rough life, haven't you?" and looked up, less a question than a declarative statement, holding my eyes, refusing to let go. she had called to me as i was walking by her porch, on the way to somewhere from somewhere else, lost in the cleveland summer. it scared me how much she seemed to know about me, how it seemed like she had known me from some other time, some other place, so i never went back. it was hot that day, but i had goosebumps on my arms for hours after from the chill that lingered. and my hands were shaking. i forced myself to ignore what they were telling me.

the lines in my hands run deep. i want to make up something about what that means, to make sense of what my dermatologist told me recently as he held my hands, palms up, and commented that there was nothing abnormal, only that most people have one or two layers of skin there, but i have several. maybe more. it takes me back to when i was 16, and my mom took me to a dermatologist and stated that my hands were starting to matter in the way it does when girls think about holding hands with boys. we were both more optimistic then.

my hands have a greater capacity for memory than my head does. they hold cigarettes with grace and love, as if they had found the perfect accoutrement to their disconnection. they hold alcohol with trepidation, knowing what my tastebuds like to forget. they hold pens as if the pen itself will determine what is written. they accentuate my speech and infuse it with feeling my intonations don't always reflect. they feel everything intensely. they are the part of my body that stubbornly refuses to get warm, stay warm, when the temperature is below 70 degrees. my hands control their own destiny, and are not liable to listen to much of what i say, searching your body for what makes you giggle and moan. the rings on my hands mark events and places and people, the traces of moments, of ideas, that i could spend my life trying to recreate. my hands contain stories and lives i could spend my life trying to forget. mostly, i try to remember.

but words are insufficient for this. words will never tell you what i want you to know. what i need you to know. take my hands in yours. and never let go. let your hand warm mine and make me forget about the chill from just a moment before. when my hands shiver, let me remember the feeling of your warmth. let my hand leave an imprint on yours that marks you forever. let my touch sear your heart.

take my hand.