#at people's hands. sometimes predict which instruments they'd be better suited to playing. if they ever wanted to pick up an instrument

[cliowo]

I know this has probably been said before but hands are so beautiful. They tell me so many stories. I'm such a sucker for stories.

The specific position and sizes of your calluses tell me which hand you write with, how much force you use when you write, even the way you hold the pen. I love how much your hands can tell me about you.

And I know some of you feel ashamed of how rough your palms are, how jagged your fingernails have become, worn by work and teeth, by your gnawing anxiety. You don't have to be. The rugged dips and valleys of your hands tell me that you have worked hard. You have known what it is to fight for what you want, perhaps even crawled through hellfire and back just to put warm food on the table. The food is still warm. And so are your hands.

And then there are hands which are wrinkled and scarred, reminders of a not-so-distant past that you would always carry with you. I am curious. I want to know how they've changed you. I want to recognise the past you in the present you.

Would you tell me the story behind each faint silver line? Would you let me share the burden? Time has not always been kind to you or to me. But there's still some time left, and I want to hear what your hands had to fight to hold on to. What they said when you were forced to let go.

And most of all, I love how I can use my hands to reach you. To convey that I'm here, and you're here and we're alive. They can bring so much comfort. Thank you for being here. I'm glad you exist