Hands I have always had a love affair with hands, even when I was little. Hard earned, well-worn hands to be precise. I find beauty and safeness in them. I feel as if they know things and hold on to those secrets. Hands tell your story, even the ones you don't always share. They will remember all your firsts, like the smooth feel of ice on the pond, the nervous shaking when first behind a wheel, the burn from playing with the toasted marshmellows, the satisfaction of fixing something and making it work, the joy and frustration in drawing and painting, the comfort of soil when planting, that first touch of silk stocking and the current it created within, the initial touch of someone's skin, feeling the trace of lips, so soft and inviting. Hands hold your mysteries and show character, like the coloring of too many days in the sun, crooked fingers from forgotten adventures, scars from being careless with knives, strength from working them raw, the gentleness they show when holding someone's hand, the fire they hold when reaching for the object of their passion and the comfort they offer when words aren't enough.