Late Night Prose…

Happy Tuesday my friends,

It’s lunch time here at work and I thought that I would skip a day on my discussion on the topic of Happiness and share a piece of prose I’ve written recently on a night when sleep eluded me.  

It was late, I looked at my hands and the words flowed…

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THESE HANDS

My mother have always told me that I have the hands of a pianist. They are slender and delicate, perfect for finessing across the ivory and ebony keys of a piano.  I believed her…  Although  I only took piano lessons for a year growing up, I’ve taught myself a lot more by ear and played keyboard in a band for quite a while in school.  From time to time, my mother’s words would resonate in my mind.

As I’ve grown, things have changed and that part of me had somehow slipped away.  My hands were better used elsewhere: pinning down the carpet and painting the walls of the living room together with my mother and sisters for what was once upon a time my home in New Jersey,  cooking for my mom when she was ill, typing codes at work or gripping my pen as it sent my thoughts tumbling across sheets of paper.  These hands of mine were meant to be worked. 

My hands have helped me climbed up the tombstones of the pyramids in Egypt.  They’ve traced the crystal white sand of the Pacific Ocean and guided me through dark, empty streets.   They’ve wrung themselves together as I waited for the acceptance letter from my first job.  Shaking and sweaty, a mix of excitement and nerves, these hands have held the microphone as I sang in front of hundreds of guests on my first day as a singer followed by so many other performances in my lifetime to date on stage.  My fingers have gripped the tissue in my hand until my knuckles were white as I held in my tears and said my last good bye to my mother before they laid her to rest in her grave… At the same time, these hands have also flown perfectly across the face of the ones I’ve loved.  They’ve danced with me in concerts and grasped the hands of a former president. These hands have touched the world.

Ingrained as these memories are, my hands wouldn’t tell you about those experiences. They’d tell you instead how worn they are from rubbing my best friend’s back after her dad died.  They’d tell you how they’ve clutched the phone as I held my breathe while trying to talk someone out of committing suicide on the suicide hotline.  They’d describe the velvety touch of my baby sister’s skin because they remember holding her, so tiny and perfect, for the first time when she was born. The hands might show you the permanent writer’s ridge on my right middle finger — a constant reminder of the pages of my life my heart spilled onto paper. These hands know the smooth texture of my mom’s face, the silky feeling of my childhood pet silkworm, the trusting grasp of my best friend when I helped her walked to her door when she was recovering from a broken knee, the electricity that passed in the first hand shake with the man I’ve loved. Every pore, every crease in these hands remembers a scent, a texture, a feeling of something important in my life.

When we shake hands, you might be able to feel the tactile experiences they’ve gone through, but my hands have a different story to tell. They may look just like everyone elses’ hands, but they have developed a character of their own. These hands have swept away dirt, pushed away enemies, wiped away tears. They’ve comforted friends, embraced family, molded lives and fabricated memories. These hands were made to take on the world…

Sending all my readers warm regards and love on this Tuesday afternoon…