Read my essay interview – WOW! Q4 Creative Nonfiction Essay Runner Up

My hands appear thin and frail, well-worn, and bony at the knuckles, age spots playing tag on my skin like connect-the-dot puzzles. Blue streaks settle beneath the surface, and new wrinkles line up near my wrist, promising not to deepen, though I know they will. I flip my hands over to see more lines sprawling across my palm. Then I see strength. Not athletic strength, but the kind one develops from a life well-lived. 

It wasn’t easy earning these hands. I worked hard for them. As a kid, I spent my days outside, traipsing up and down rugged trails, stopping to bury my hands in dirt, digging graves for lifeless grasshoppers and other small creatures I found along the way. My fingers carefully wrapped their bodies in leaves and laid them to rest in a hole just the right size. Scooping more soil from the earth, my hands sprinkled it lightly over the leaves until the deceased faded from sight. I positioned two wooden sticks in the shape of a cross over the grave. Soon after, my hands delighted in cool water from an outdoor garden hose, rinsing off the dirt and then lifting the nozzle to my mouth to satisfy my thirst. 

As I grew older, my hands became more useful as I learned to play the guitar, picking and strumming tunes from the 1970s and my favorite artists… Joni Mitchell, Neil Young, and others. I used my hands responsibly as a teenager, learning to drive, writing essays for school, and then caressing the strong, unruffled hands of my first serious boyfriend. 

Later, holding a college diploma, my hands found the door to a Catholic hospital and secured a profession, typing up business plans, shuffling papers, and shaking the hand of Pope John Paul II during his papal visit to America. 

Then my hands found true love, and my left ring finger held the promise of a future I’d dreamed of, but I later realized some promises shatter. Collecting the fragments, my hands stayed busy, working full-time, tenderly caring for my two children, learning to push a lawn mower, and counting my dollars to see how far I could stretch them. 

After several years, these hands held my children tight as they left home to pursue their dreams and settle down with their own families and careers. 

Just before I turned sixty, my hands hesitated when writing a letter of resignation, knowing it was time to stop shuffling papers, typing up business plans, and trying to climb an unstable corporate ladder with rungs impossible to reach. After retiring, my hands found themselves busy again in the most beautiful ways. Still working hard, they carried peace and joy to my heart, without the burden of a demanding career. Now, I dirty my hands with gardening, cleaning the home I love, cooking my favorite meals, and caring for grandkids. 

Playing with grandchildren is the best pursuit my hands have known. Coloring, crafting, playing with dinosaurs, and Hot Wheels. Pushing swings, pausing songs for freeze dance, and snapping photos. So many photos. These hands also find joy in feeding and stroking a ten-pound Shih Tzu named Millie, and a 150-pound African spurred tortoise, Zulu. 

At long last, my hands work hard to pursue my passion to read and write. My fingers glide along the spines of books on my shelf until one catches my eye. Then one hand holds the book while the other turns its pages, and they later amuse themselves with journals, notebooks, and pens. More often, my palm rests comfortably on a mouse, and my fingers search the keyboard on my laptop for letters that will become words, sentences, paragraphs, and pages. My hands express love by helping me practice my craft and connect with other writers. With my mind, heart, and soul, they pen the stories that must be told. 

Though not as nimble as they once were, my hands are never idle. They’ll continue to work hard and play hard until every other part of my body gives out. It is then that I will let them rest.