I looked at my hands today
To examine my life lines
Curious to know how meaningful my life is
I couldn’t decipher what this or that line meant
But what I came to realize was the story of my life
Depicted in my hands as a whole
Not just the coded lines on my palms
Studying my hands, the story unfolded
Barely aged, and hardly worn from labor
Yet scarred here and there with youthful recklessness
I looked over at the hands of my parents
There I saw a better story of my childhood
My father’s hands were large and rough
The knuckles slightly swollen and covered with hair
The palms patched with calluses
Much like the hands of my grandfather
Hard working men and battle-scarred war veterans
My grandfather’s index and middle finger of his right hand
Stained a dark yellow from countless years of smoking
Father’s just starting to darken,
He holds his cigarettes the same way
My mother has smaller hand, almost child size like mine
Our knuckles are hairless and smooth
Her fingers are bruised and swollen from all the blood sugar tests
Diabetes runs on both sides of my family
My mother’s hands are not that aged
Not like my grandmother’s whose hands
Pulse with thick purple veins
Covered in the wrinkles of her wisdom and age
Forever stained with the scent of onions and raw meat
My mother’s hands scented with a fainter chef’s scent
Lastly, I look upon my niece’s baby hands
Untouched by time
Hairless, wrinkle-less, and scarless
A sight of the pure perfection, of innocence
The life lines on her hands much longer
and more crisscrossed than mine
I take this as a good sign
I believe she will have a full and happy life
As I have had,
Thanks to the caring hands of my ancestors
Octavia Knight
Punxsutawney, PA
First published in The Watershed Journal
