Look at these hands...

These hands of mine. They look so tough to me. I stared at them for an eternity yesterday. Just trying to find the moment they started to show my age. I am not old, but I am older. The bones are there, the veins, the scars. I started thinking of these hands and where they had been. They have been with me every single day.

I saw the calloused bump on my right 4th digit; just above the distal joint, just below the nail bed. That's where my pencil has rested thru endless pages of letters to friends, school homework, college notes. That's where my pen rested the day I forged a doctors signature on an excuse note in highschool. I remember that day well. I felt a tinsy bit of freedom from the rigors of life that day, only to pay the consequences later.

I can't help but think that's where my pen rested the day I signed my name on a marriage certificate. I was seventeen. I was so young. How beautiful my hands must've been that day. Signing my name only to pay the consequences later. I remember that day well.

Those were the same hands that now have that indenture on my left 4th digit, where my wedding ring found a home for eleven years. Everyday for eleven years, except when my fingers swelled so much with my pregnancy that I had to take the ring off and wear it around my neck on a chain. I remember the day when my husband accidentally locked the keys in the car. I was pregnant, we had gone out for breakfast. As soon as he realized the keys were locked in the car, and that my extra set were locked in the apartment, he started yelling at me. I sat threw breakfast chocking down pancakes with tears in my eyes. It was of course my fault that he locked the keys in the car. We walked across town to where my mom worked. She had an extra set of keys to the apartment. Those were the days without cell phones, or at least we were too poor to own one. It was late August, sweat poured out of my pregnant self. Those same hands swollen and trembling with anger and a heart aching. I remember that day well. I never forgot my keys in the apartment after that. For eleven years, I never left the house without my keys. For eleven years I never got out of the car without first making sure his keys were not left in the ignition. No ring now, just the indention and the memories.

So many memories with these hands.

I remember my first manicure. She massaged the muscles in my hands. How it felt so good. How amazed I was that my hands could be so tense. Years after that first manicure I decided on the luxury of fake fingernails. For someone that has always had short, brittle nails, oh how beautiful those fake nails made my hands look. But I was so rough on them, they didn't last long. I couldn't dig in the dirt with those nails. I couldn't plant my coriopsis. I broke several of those fake nails that day. But that coriopsis was planted and it bloomed right beside my asters along the driveway of the first home we owned. That's the day I decided that I loved digging in the dirt more than I loved my fake nails. Gardening became a passion. The smell of those asters every fall was priceless. I remember that day well.

I remember my hands being there through the years of babies. These hands woke up many nights to hold babies. To change babies. To mix formula for babies. To hold a pillow over my head while the colicky babies screamed for hours. To wipe tears from the babies cheeks. Oh those beautiful baby cheeks. These hands gently tickled the the ten year olds belly through the night, as he suffered from the pain of a broken arm that hadn't yet been casted. These hands placed the candles just so on the multiple birthday cakes through the past eleven years. I remember those days well.
I remember my hands being there suffering through endless hours of lecture notes in college. That calloused bump grew bigger. I remember the days of waitressing through college. The day I waited on Dale Earnhardt and not knowing who he was until I swiped his credit card. I was just getting myself through college, paying a mortgage, and feeding my babies...frankly, he was just another joe-shmoe. But I remember that day well.

I remember my hands trembling everyday for about two years from the anti-depressants I took. I couldn't stop the trembling. I hated the trembling, but I did what I had to do. I fought my demons with those bare, trembling hands. I remember those days well.

I remember my hands cradling the faces of my very few lovers. Looking into their eyes and questioning fate. I knew my heart would be broken but still I pursued. Abandon all for love. I remember those days well.

I remember my hands in Los Angeles. Those hands toted luggage around the airports as I followed at the heels of Andi. Those hands grasped Trish as I met her for the first time. Those hands waved to Robbie as she entered the apartment. Those hands accepted the drinks made by Gigis fabulous hands. Those hands held on to the oh shit handles (or lack there of) as Robbie navigated the LA traffic. Those hands embraced Cheryl as she told me everything would be okay. Trish told me those hands were soft. Softest hands she had ever felt. Darin said the same thing this New Years Eve. Softest hands he'd ever felt. I remember those days well.

These hands have wiped away my tears. These hands have embraced strangers only to make new friends. These hands have waved good-bye too many times. Today these hands wear no rings, no fake nails. These hands are always with me doing whatever needs done as they are tied behind my back. Only wearing the memories of the past years in form of scars, calloused bumps and indentures. These hands I hold dear. They have been with me every single day, just doing what needed done, as they are tied behind my back. (heh heh heh, watch me pull a rabbit out of my hat.)