Melissa Martin
A WOMAN’S HANDS
I
sign a visa receipt at the store, and I notice my hands.
When did my hands turn into my mother’s hands? I
notice the well-worn winkles. My mother’s hands have
held children and paintbrushes for decades. I have been
gardening during the spring and summer, and my hands
show it. When did my hands turn into my grandmother’s
hands? I notice the thinning skin with bluish veins. My
paternal grandmother’s hands held children, a frying pan,
and a hoe for a lifetime. My maternal grandmother’s hands
held children, a paintbrush, and a crocheting hook.
As an infant, my hands reached for momma. As an adult,
my hands embraced my newborn baby girl. Our hands
touched the miracle of life.
My hands peeled potatoes, scrubbed toilets, washed
clothes. My hands baked cookies, dusted furniture, swept
floors. My hands put band-aids on my daughter’s knees,
brushed her hair, clapped at her recitals.
My hands have been clasped tightly in prayer for loved
ones. My hands have held the Holy Bible and turned the
pages.
My hands have wrapped Christmas presents and tied
bows. My hands have boiled and colored Easter eggs. My
hands have passed bowls of food at holiday dinners with
my family.
A woman’s hands change stinky diapers, clean-up vomit,
and drive kids to school activities. Our hands pack lunches
and fix dinners.
I look at my hands. The knuckles protrude because of
my habit of cracking them. Age spots from the sun are
appearing. I look at my palms; calluses are absent. I am a
white-collar worker.
My hands have given tissues to crying clients and wore
sock puppets in
play therapy with
sexually abused
children. My hands
have held my head
as I’ve swept salty
tears for hurting
humanity.
the tombstones of women killed in domestic violence
situations.
I look at my second wedding band on my left hand. Our
hands tell stories. I pawned my first one. I don’t wear
diamonds; greedy foreign business owners rape the
diamond mines in African and cheat the people and their
country. I don’t wear other rings by choice.
In the twenty-first century, my hands tap away on the
computer keyboard, surf the Internet, and burn CDs.
Learning technology does not come easy for me as I grew
up in a different generation.
My daughter’s hands have different experiences. Her
hands have played the piano, cheered in front of the crowd
at ballgames, and fixed wounded animals. Her hands are
attached to her cell-phone and email.
My oldest sister’s hands caress plants, cook from scratch
and sew. Her hands are akin to Appalachia. Thrice, her
hands have rocked the cradle. My younger sister’s hands
embrace books, stroke cats, and decorate. Her hands share
the joy of reading. My grandmother’s and aunt’s hands held
cigarettes for years. Fortunately, they stopped smoking. My
grandmother’s hands never spanked me. To my recollection,
my aunt’s hands never spanked me either.
Both grandmothers’ hands experienced arthritis in
the elderly years. Their hands worked so hard during
America’s era of agriculture and industry. Their hands
plucked chickens, canned vegetables, and picked fruit.
I am grateful for the pioneer women whose hands carried
picket signs so that I have the right to vote. My hands are
white; therefore, I have not had to suffer racism due to skin
color like my African America sisters.
Every morning my hands hold my coffee mug as I start
the day. With age,
my hands have
learned to relax and
rest more, and it is
welcomed.
Hands tell the story
of our career and
jobs. Hands tell the
story of our culture
and traditions.
Hands tell the story
of our past and
present. Hands
tell the story of a
woman’s life.
My hands carried a
life-sized wooden
silhouette and
marched at the
State Capital
building for a
rally in protest of
women killed by
spouses/partners
due to domestic
violence. My hands
have touched
DOZ Magazine | March 2019
Melissa writes
about God and
human connection
and condition.
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