homage to my hands

When I was two and a half, my fragile hands held my newborn sister. Smile for the camera: now it's forever. My hands straddled monkey bars as I dangled above the earth. They cradled sand wherever I traveled. From the beach, from the lake, even at home I had the sensation of grains sliding over my fingertips. My hands were decorated with dirt and play, enough to make Mommy say, "Go take a bath, Michelle." They gripped the handlebars of my bicycle, my chariot to adventure. It always knew when I wanted to escape.

And somewhere in the depths of elementary school, lodged somewhere between kickball and Pokemon, my hands held a number two pencil and my first ratty comp book.

"Michelle's a story teller," Mommy would say. And my hands would carry my pride.

My hands have been there for me, through tragedy and triumph. They slapped the pavement of three different states and traveled five different schools: from the homely south to the bitter north. In the rural abyss of middle school, my hands held the shame of being caught between the playground and the hold Rockaway mall.

I was still lost in my youth. And my hands didn't want out.