Hands are amazing things. Nothing tells more about a person than their hands. There is not much anyone can do without our hands, and they are what separate us from the regular animals. You can always tell someone's age by their hands, how thin the skin, how plump, how scarred or calloused, how trusting, how gnarled. They have facelifts and plastic surgery and make up to hide and change the face. But no one thinks to examine your hands.

There is power in your hands. You may use them to create, to caress, or to destroy. They communicate who we are- just watch any dancer. Listen to a talker with bad hands, and you will stare at his hands rather than hear what he says.

I fill my life with my hands with my baking and my cleaning. I have a few odd scabs and scars on the back of my hand, and one place on the webbing where I have altered my prints when I cut myself by mistake. And you can see where age is changing the shape of the joints slowly. My grandmother's hands are twisted, I can see where mine are no longer straight. I do not know where the bruise came from. It will heal in a few more weeks.

There are days when I miss gloves for everyday use. Touching is almost impersonal now. Hands were more alluring when they were rarely seen.  ¶ 9:49 AM