You can tell from such worn out hands. You can tell how much work has been done to make a decent living. You can see the crevices that plague the surface like hills and valleys that envelop the Earth. You can see how dry they are, like water dried out from a once pure river system spreading out along each and every valley. You can see how coarse and rough they have become with calluses on the very joints that once supported the interlocking of the fingers of a loved one. And with nails so brittle, dry and thick, you can see how much they have grown over and over again regardless of how much they’ve been used to scape, scratch, claw, and penetrate the very own flesh.
Can you see? For these are my hands. These are the hands that once held a smile so delicate. These are the hands that raised your spirits in the times of turmoil. These are the hands that were there for you to grab when you couldn’t trust anyone, even yourself—confused and afraid. These are the hands that transferred heat to your always-so-cold hands that couldn’t even be kept warm with gloves or the hot mug we sipped hot chocolate from.
But you can’t see. These were the hands that tried to pull you back when you went walking out of my life. These are the hands that worked, worked, and worked to prove to no one other than myself with no real purpose. These are the hands that have grown so tired from stress, from labor, and most of all, time.
Yes, these are my hands; This is my time.
If only these hands could just tell you,
Farewell.
Notes
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