My Grandmother's Hands

Grandma's fingers were long and thin. Her palms nearly square at the bottom. Her fingernails glistened while she worked the fine ridges housing the half moons. A layer of dirt accumulated beneath those sturdy nails of hers. Her hands were strong, hands that could cook, clean and butcher. The way she moved her hands was probably my favorite part, she'd use them to tell stories. Point out stars. Make us food. Collect corn pollen. She'd use those hands to pat our backs, her long hands going from my spine to my rib cage. Beautiful weathered hands that would rest on her knees. Hands that tied her head scarf on, hands that taught me how to tie my shoes. With both loops rather than starting with one. As I look at my hands now I see her hands in mine. The same square palm the same long thin fingers that rings just never seem to be small enough for. My hands, less weathered tell a different story. From a different time. My palms have been embedded with rocks, the scar left behind is a faint discolored splotch. My finger knuckles wrinkle like hers did though, the folds of skin thick and deep, soft to the touch. My knuckles are pointy, like mountains. Sharp to the touch, good for punching with. My thumbs are double jointed. Doing things they shouldn't but still do, they are the rebels on my hands. On my right thumb I have a callus, the same callus I began to notice in 5th grade, I got it from doing school work. That's when I partly discovered I liked to write. Also on my right hand on the finger closest to my pinky is the one I crushed while using the paper cutter in church. It's half moon is broken and blends in with the fleshy color of my nail. It will always grow a little shorter than all the others.