My Family’s Hands
Dad’s hands are like a worn baseball glove. Dry, cracked, and abused, his palms expand into meaty digits weathered by a life on the farm and upstate winters. His fingernails are dark and fractured, broken like the wood chips at the playground. His hands have turned to leather, dried and stretched by years of labor. I imagine my dad lathering lotion into the pits and ravines of his skin, the moisture sinking deeper and deeper until it disappears off the cliffs. Dad would come in from the barn and place his icy mitts against my neck, sending shivers up my spine. I suppose his hands have become numb to the elements. Whenever I think about the kind of man my father is, I think about his hands, a testament to his work ethic and humbleness.
Mom’s hands stretch forever like saltwater taffy spinning on a wheel at a fair. Her fingers extend from looming palms, reaching like spider legs or jellyfish tentacles. Calluses poke out where finger meets palm, hardened from riding horses and doing pull-ups in the gym. I picture her in the gymnasium of the same high school I attended palming a basketball. She’d strut over to where the boys were shooting hoops, cross them up, and swish the net in their faces. I’m sure one of the guys would make a comment about a woman’s ball and chuck a man’s at her chest. Her ready hands would snatch it from the air, dribble with ease, and drain a bucket with a devilish grin. Her hands were designed for athleticism. For wrapping around a softball bat or flicking a basketball in a soaring arch to the backboard. Mom’s hands reject the dainty expectations of femininity. When I think of my mom, her hands remind me of her power and strength.
Grandma’s hands bend and twist, morphed by the cruelty of time. Once straight and long, now crooked and bulged like knots in a tree. Veins run like rivers of life, poking against wrinkled skin, weaving a tapestry of blue. Her hands used to expand as far as Mom’s, but gravity stunted and pressed his might against the once-long lines. I imagine Grandma threading a needle, misshapen fingers shaking slightly but still managing to slip the elusive thread through the tiny hole. Grandma would yell at the Yankees on the television while hand-stitching the border of the next quilt to be sold or gifted to the friend or family member she deemed worthy of her precious work. I suppose this work would have been swift and painless before age took her hands hostage, but now I can only guess the aches in her joints as she pushes the needle through fabric and repeats the in-out motion like rising and crashing waves. When I think of my grandma, I think of her knobby knuckles weaving love into her creations.
My hands are small. They lack the stretching fingers of my mom or the thick wide palms of my dad. My hands are smooth, without calluses or cracks from cold New York winters. My hands look nothing like my parents’. Maybe one day they will be bent and twisted like Grandma’s from typing at a computer or plucking out notes on ivory for the songs I sing. I hide my hands from Mom and Dad, ashamed mine don’t tell a story like the ones I see written on their skin. My hands don’t speak of hard work. My hands don’t speak of days on a court or field. My hands don’t speak of hours spent with a sewing machine. What story do my hands tell? I imagine years down the road, my daughter might grab my hand in her soft pink clutch and trace my veins and lines like roads on a map. I hope one day my daughter sees Dad’s dedication, Mom’s strength, and Grandma’s generosity etched into the storybook of my skin.
Natalie McKenzie is a senior studying musical theatre and creative writing at SUNY Geneseo. Whether on the stage, behind the mic, or on the page, she aspires to move an audience and tell stories that leave a positive impact. She enjoys exploring the topics of family, horses, and fantasy elements in her writing.