I’ve been fascinated by hands for as long as I can remember. At a very young age I would memorize the veins, lines and shape of my mom’s hands. The way her ring would twist on her finger. The way my dad’s hands were rough and gentle at the same time.

To me, hands are incredibly beautiful. I always felt like I understood someone better by knowing their hands.

I was always particularly fascinated by the hands of the woman who played the piano at the church I attended as a girl. Every Sunday morning after church, I would run up to the piano so I could watch her play as people left. Her pale, almost transparent skin stretched thinly, just barely veiling thin, slender, bony fingers. Blue-green veins rippled under her skin as her hands moved effortlessly over the keys.

And as I’ve grown older, I’ve loved to watch the hands of the ones I love change as time steals by; leaving work and stories etched into every line and contour. Young hands of little girls turn into womanly, delicate hands. The hands of grown-ups grow thinner, veins protrude from underneath thin skin. And yet some details remain the same; a scar, a freckle, certain lines.

On the night I fell in love with my husband, he played his guitar for me. And as I watched his hands strumming out a Coldplay tune for me; as I memorized the beautiful shape of his hands and fingers, I knew I would watch those hands grow old.


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