The works of my hands.

My hands are like that of an old man's.

They are strong, tendons flexing and jutting out, tiny little muscles pulling with greater strength than I have in my whole body, rests in my pinky.

I have filled my head with text books and numbers, happy and sad memories, and I will still never know as much as these hands.

They have written a thousand words, and on one new years eve, writing myself away from lonely, I developed a blister on my middle finger which I named a Badge of Honor.

A few weeks back that same finger developed a bruise under neath the callous from so many hours taking notes, wring essays, still more poetry, but this time I called it a Pain in the Ass.

8 years back these fingers fumbled, clumsily, at fluffy yarn that they now wield expertly to craft scarves sold for pocket money.

These are my hands.

The veins jut out like thick blue cords and even jump about when the powerful tendons flex beneath. And my nails with chipped polish have slightly jagged ends where the wire cuts in.

And there are nicks in the pads of my fingers where I get pricked from bending wire about beads into a trendy necklace.

These are my hands.

And they suffer from a condition they haven't named yet, but I call "busy-itis" because although they ache from fibromyalgia and over use they can never seem to stop moving.

And I know these things are under-valued, which is why I get a degree, because only the artistically blessed can make a living from this. But don't mistake it for a hobby.

It is a way of my being.
And these are my ugly, sturdy hands.

They look like my father's, who is 48 but our hands seem to be the same age because we both worked hard to build and create.May I be known for intellect, may I be known for good works to man, God have mercy let me be known for my hands.

My mother wipes faces and noses, my father carries boxes and weights, and both pairs of hands know the intricacies of either machines and carpentry or how to cook and create. My brother could spin magic from the stings of an instrument, and my friend become sister can recreate life on paper. Let they be known for their intellect, or for their good works to man,

God have mercy, let them be known for their hands.

To reach out and touch a smiling face, to offer that which fills an aching belly. Let us not just develop our minds, but not forget the practical serving of another person. By the use of our hands, let us offer ourselves to a greater purpose.

These are my hands.