I had a good look at my hands today. They grew from a longing inside my father to tiny fists inside my mother, and came into this world with 10 soft nails the size of snow.
I must have discovered I had hands at around 3 months old. They fed me, got bigger, and I used them to steer my first bike. How amazing are hands - they've lifted and squeezed, caressed and scratched, grasped and wrestled, wrung and stroked, tweaked, pushed and pulled me through life. The hands that tap tap tap in front of me take the thoughts from my head onto your computer. Wow! They're a pink skin pillow to lean on while I read.
I've always liked my hands but my nails don't get enough love. The gold ring on the left has earnt a few scratches in the last 14 years, and I wear them like medals of honour.
I remember gently pulling up the skin on my Grandma's hands so that I could marvel at how it didn't go down again! Mine still goes down, but I've noticed a few brown age spots (I might insist they're freckles). I looked at a palm-reading website but quickly left - these hands do enough without telling me the future.