My nails are almost always dirty and I have square hands. Usually my cuticles are stained with paint, my nails trimmed irreverently so that theyâ€™re short, not shaped. My knuckles boney, veins bulge.
I used to be embarrassed by my hands, boyish and un-ladylike. But gradually Iâ€™ve grown to love all that they are. My fatherâ€™s handsâ€”a size smaller. Able hands, strong hands.
I climb crags, wield a hammer, kneed bread, and paint all with my hands. I make love, bathe my son, pet the cat, and pull weeds all with my hands.
They donâ€™t dress up well. They are not made for â€œhey Vito is my car red-y?â€ red. But they are capable of a thousand finely tuned maneuvers. In the kinesthetic memory of my fingers the expanse of my keyboard is stored.
I can type almost as fast as I think.