A Day In The Life

I have small hands. They are small but strong- they are good at baking and rolling out dough, they know how to embroider, crochet and knit. They strum and pluck the strings on the guitar, they play the piano, they are always there to give a pat or to hold. I use them to create letters and words in Sign Language, when they become tools of speech.

As I have aged they have become more and more riddled with what my grandmother called “liver spots” from all those years of taking the sun. They have always been wrinkled, it bothered me when I was in my 20’s, but now I have grown into them. The veins stand out prominently and I was told once that they looked like “working hands” which I took as a compliment though that is not how it was intended.

My palms have an inordinate amount of wrinkles- far more than any of my friends.When I was in my twenties I had my palm read. When the Palm Reader turned my hand over she did not utter a word. I asked her what it meant that my palm was so lined. She looked up at me and replied, “It is because you have lived many lives my dear.” She then went on to tell me what my palm told her about who I was, and was spot on about many things, without having asked me any questions about myself beforehand. Years later I read that the cause of an overly wrinkled palm could come from clenching the fists very tightly while in the womb- but I prefer to stick with what the Palm Reader told me those many years ago.

Hands