I like that my smile lights up a room and my eyes tell stories. My breasts sustained a life for six months without hesitation. I honor them and am in awe of their perkiness and power. My shoulders are strong and have a beautiful line, but I love my hands.
I love my hands the best because they tell stories and hold memory in ways I can’t explain. My hands give pleasure and have caught babies. These ten digits have launched aircraft and made the most delicate gnocchi. With my hands I’ve soothed sick children and held the face of lovers. My hands clasp in prayer and splay in ecstasy. My hands rub my feet and hold a warm cup of tea after hours of exploring on cold winter days. And on those nights that I feel too tired, if I haven’t held a pen to paper, my hands ache for the need to tell my story and I cannot sleep until I comply with their need to remember the day. Yes, I love my hands- they are the tellers, guides, and creators of a well-lived life.