A couple of weeks ago, while I was in the Fort McMurray airport, I found myself in the bathroom washing my hands. As I finished and placed them under the hand dryer, I became acutely aware of them. The warm air moved the skin on my hands, and I suddenly noticed that they looked older than I remembered. It got me thinking about these hands—my hands—and all they have done over the span of fifty years.
These hands were once new. Soft and pudgy, likely sucked on and placed in my little mouth. They became my means of movement as I learned to crawl, then to pull myself up and explore the world around me. These hands waved “bye-bye,” played peek-a-boo, and discovered hot and cold, sometimes touching things they shouldn’t have and knocking things over. These hands hugged and squeezed the people I loved. They learned to grasp, to practice dexterity, to hold a spoon and a fork, small victories that felt like big accomplishments. I can only imagine the joy of holding a crayon for the first time, scribbling wildly before learning to form letters, then words, then sentences.
These hands have created things like macaroni necklaces, drawings, stories. They have learned the unspoken language of touch from handshakes, high fives, gestures of explanation and expression. These hands have played games like dribbling basketballs, bumping volleyballs, swimming, climbing, pulling back a bowstring. They have also felt pain from bee stings to small bruises from adventure. And yet, through all of this, I never really noticed them. The veins, the knuckles, the tiny hairs, the emerging age spots—why had I never noticed them?
These hands have loved. They have touched and caressed, held and protected. These hands cradled first my baby girl, they have stroked her tiny face, and held her head with tenderness. These hands did it all over again when my son came into my life. They changed diapers, bathed little bodies, soothed cries, and lifted them high into the air. These hands zipped up jackets, tied shoes, and rocked little ones to sleep. They prepared countless meals, folded endless piles of laundry, and searched tirelessly for lost socks. These hands cooked breakfasts, packed lunches, and served up what seemed like unlimitless suppers. They cleaned, they scrubbed, they worked hard. And when the day was over, no matter how exhausted they were, these hands still found time to hug, to comfort, to tuck children into bed at night.
Then, one day, these hands said goodbye as those little ones grew up and left the nest. They searched for purpose. They turned the pages of books, delving into knowledge and learning. They returned to old traditions, recreating the recipes of my childhood from perogies to cabbage rolls and pies. They found solace in these familiar motions. They foraged for plants, picked berries, learned to make teas, salves, and jams. These hands also show the marks of their work whether it stained from berries, pricked by thorns, or stung by bees. Yet they carried on, finding joy in what was created. Later they packed backpacks, tied hiking boots, gripped walking sticks, and touched the earth. They discovered the power of adventure and the satisfaction of wiping sweat from my brow after a long hike.
And then, one again life shifted. These hands stopped moving. They became hands that held kleenex, wiped away tears, and held on tightly in long embraces. These hands laid still, weighed down by grief. They continued to do what was necessary, but they no longer found joy in their work.
Until one day, everything changed. These hands were given another baby to hold, a new little boy, my grandson. He is just as precious as the first two, but different in a way that fills me with wonder. These hands touch his face, hold his tiny head, and cradle him with the gentlest love. These hands have found joy again, have found happiness in the warmth of a new life, hope for a new generation.
As I look down at them now, I study the wrinkles, the veins, the rough edges of my fingernails. I smile. These hands have done so much. If I could measure the hours, the minutes, the moments they have spent in action, I know the number would be beyond my comprehension.
These hands have built a life, shaped memories, and held love itself. And they are not done yet. These wrinkles, these scars, these marks—they are not signs of wear, but badges of honor, each telling a story of where these hands have been and what they have yet to do.
