My Hands

I slide down a long path in the snow with my hands out in front of me. The cold and bumps are hurting my raw and under covered hands as glide down the "snow slide." I can feel the pain in them, from both the cold and the dryness, but don't care. I am having too much fun on the slide to feel my hands. It's almost as if the way my hands feel is completely separate from the rest of me. Probably because I have made it be.

I am someone who likes to get my hands dirty. Literally. There isn't much that I won't touch my hands to and, as a result, I have a lot of scars, dirt, scratches and other stuff on my hands. Right now, I can see several marks on one of my knuckles from I don't even know what. I can see the skin that is practically splitting from dryness on the back of my hands. I have a scar on my right hand from when I accidentally ran it along the basketball court and gave it a "gym-floor burn."

On the inside of my hand I can feel the spot where I touched boiling sugar once. I can feel and see the calluses from years of doing the monkey-bars. Just below my hand, on my wrist, is a scar identical to the one on my right hand. I also got that from playing basket ball. I can see the creases and everything else that goes on a palm. A blue vain, sticks out from a red background.

My hands look far from perfect and they have too many marks on them to count, but I love my hands. I love the fact that they are bigger than most people's who are several inches taller than me. I love the calluses and the squishiness. My hands are a reminder of everything that I can do with them. How I can do almost anything. I can help people, and save things that are important. I can do thing that are important to me. I love my hands. It's because my hands just remind me of my favorite moments. They remind me of myself.