As I’ve grown older, my hands have softened. As a child, my hands were large and lumpy and seemed to get in the way, never felt much attached to my body. They seemed out of place, as if they didn’t belong to me, but to a person whom I had not yet learned enough about, to become.

Now, I see my hands, as pure as they are, attached to my body. As if the work I have done, throughout my time on this earth, has presented me with a gift, a gift of my own hands. I am proud they are my own.

When I see them, I see my inner being, pure, relentless, old yet still so young. Touched many times, shaken by proud men and women who have laid a kiss upon them. A cigarette between two of their fingers, much to their dismay, yet honoured to hold between them, which makes who is attached to them feel at ease. They have felt softness and become hard from the times they have had to raise a finger, sternly. Money has slipped from them, knowing they will feel the cool coin once again. Washed, numerous times out of anxiety and touched skin to skin of past lovers, slowly guiding over the marks that one endured.

My hands were a burden, and now, they are fixated on the focus, the rolling bellows of the camera that captures everything they wish to touch,  yet appreciating the food they have raised to my lips, the kindness they have handed out, as if it would not sacrifice their own, the touches they have given to people who needed it more than they did. The hand of sacrifice, pain, kindness, and love. The hand that has given, yet taken recklessly. Who has possessed and hopelessly given?

I thank my hands for knowing kindness before I did. For knowing anger before I could tell them to settle. To belong to me and to no one else. My hands are my own.

Always love,

Gia x