Hands, My Vice

March 30, 2017

I have a hard time telling between age groups by faces. Some have baby faces through their late twenties, but for others, puberty treated them better than it did me.

But one thing I love about everyone is their hands; I can’t tell between a 24- and a 25-year-old but I can differentiate between late twenties and thirties, or late thirties and​ forties and so on. I just love hands and I don’t really know why.

I just get a sense of intimacy with people’s hands–scars, nail shapes, wrinkles, visible veins–it’s like I could read their story in their fingers or palms.

They’re hands to hold, hands to create, hands to soothe. Hands that have held, hands that have created, hands that have soothed. And if they become a part of your life their hand can hold and soothe yours, and stories behind your hands can come together, too, creating a new story for the both of you.

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