Everybody in my family has different hands.
Ayden’s hands are short and agile for a two year old.
They love to turn the pages of books, fit puzzle pieces
together, and play games on touch screens.
Ellie’s hands are small and slow.
She reaches up to be held and rubs her sleepy eyes
with her chubby little fist.
Her hands love to clap and explore textures.
My hands are coarse, hard and practiced,
dexterous as a monkey climbing a tree.
But my wife’s hands,
my wife’s hands are soft and thin
and fair like a porcelain doll,
smooth as a polished vase but warm
as a mountain meadow in springtime and
every bit as fragrant,
gentle as a silken petal brushing my cheek,
and when she touches me
her hands are the doll,
the meadow in Spring,
the pedal on my cheek—