The hands of a woman

"Oh wow!" he exclaims. What he means is, I expect a five foot nothing little lady in a pink dress like you to have soft and manicured hands. I could snatch my hands back, but I don't. instead, I turn them over and I show him more.

"Yeah" I say "I don't have girly hands. All I have is bruises from the times I cooked to feed my loved ones. I can't keep polish on my nails for more than a day because chores chip them away.

I am small and cute. I like getting dolled up, wearing pretty dresses and doing my hair. I stand straight so you can only see the weight I'm carrying through my hands. My callouses tell you about the burdens I've lifted off my family.

Here, you see the scar on my thumb? I saw my blood drip on the white tiles and swallowed my tears. The scar looks a little funny because all I had was a piece of cloth to tend to me as I finished making the meal.

The same hands that massaged stress and tension off of people's backs with scented oils are ironically dry and smell like bleach but all the ugly didn't just come from the kitchen. 

The crook on my middle finger is from all the late nights I spent pouring myself into paper until my arm cramped. My ring finger is held down by the weight my love.

This little scar is my favorite. You see over here, right under my pinky. It's from the day I found out my daughter had finally grown teeth.

My hands have fed. My hands have cleaned. My hands have carried, supported and held.

My hands have wiped tears.

My hands have helped me talk to the world.

I'm getting old now. I've started to forget, but my hands don't lie. If you count all my cuts, my scars, my crooks, bruises and wrinkles then you'll know how much I've lived.

My hands aren't dainty or soft or delicate.

I don't have girly hands.

I have the hands of a woman.