I love looking at my grandfather's hands. He has a condition that is similar to parkinson's disease, which causes his hands to shake. His hands are the hands of a radio technician, a computer repairman, a husband, a father, an artist, and so much more. These are the hands that make the best brownies in the world. These are the hands that made colored pancakes and waffles for all of the grandchildren. His hands are scarred and wrinkled. They are rough, but soft. I love them.
My hands look like my mother's, and her hands look like her father's. She has a scar on her left thumb where she had surgery to repair the joint. These are the hands of a child, a wife, a mother, a hard worker, a leader, and a teacher. These are the hands that rubbed my legs at night when I woke up with growing pains. These are the hands that make holiday meals. These hands held the books that took my sister and I to different worlds at night. I love them.
I used to think that my hands were ugly. When I was younger I had warts, and was embarrassed by them. My father's mother, Nonna, gave us porcelain dolls; my sister and I loved them. I found a woman who taught porcelin dolls. I approached her and asked her about classes. She grabbed my hands and exclaimed, "Bud! [Bud was her husband] look at her hands! They are beautiful hands!" Anne became one of the most influential and most loving women in my life. She taught me that hands do not have to be perfect to create beautiful things. My hands are the hands of a child, a student, a writer, a researcher, a dreamer, and an artist. These hands prepare meals. These hands create.