Hands

When I look in the mirror, I see all the things 
I’ve wanted to change. I see 
my nose that I wished were smaller, 
my eyes that I wished were bigger, 
my waist that I wished were symmetrical, 
my hair that I wished were more voluminous, 
my wrinkles that I wish hadn’t arrived 
so soon.

I see the labels 
I’ve been given: 
thin, 
bony, 
white, 
woman, 
pretty, 
young, 
strong.

But when I look down at my hands, I feel 
calm. 

When I look at my hands, I remember 
all the things they have held, and 
all the things they are capable of 
holding.

I remember the smooth patch on the wall of the farmhouse, 
the patch I touched each night on my way to bed.

I remember the indents the violin strings left on my fingers, and 
the dry, sticky rosin from the bow.

I remember the blood blisters and rips and calluses from gymnastics, and 
the permanent chalky smell of my palms.

I remember braiding my teammates’ hair before our cross country races, 
the strands threading through my fingers as I tried to comb gently 

through the knots.
I remember holding Wanda for the first time, 
her soft brown velvet, 
her floppy skin, 
her tiny, wet nose, 
her tiny, strong heartbeat.

I remember how scratchy the hospital sheets were,
on my bed, 
and on my father’s.

I look at my hands, and I see my mother’s hands, 
playing piano, 
kneading bread, 
rubbing my father’s feet 
as he lay dying.

I see my aunt’s hands, 
rubbing my mother’s back 
as she rubbed my father’s feet 
as he lay dying.

I see my father, 
as he died, holding 
his hand to his brother’s heart, saying, 
“It feels so good to feel your heart, to feel 
your love.”

I see my own hands, grasping 
at the empty bed, 
hating them for taking his body 
so soon.

I see my own hands, clutching 
the wadded up tissues, clawing 
at the photographs we had set up for 
his memorial service.

I see my hands, sprinkling 
his ashes across the farm, 
across the waters of Mexico, 
into the Alps of Switzerland.

I see my hands, pressed together 
in prayer, even though I don’t know 
how to pray.

I close my eyes and take 
my hands to 
my own heart, 
so I don’t have to see, 
I can just feel.

And as I feel 
my heart, I feel 
how strong my heart is, 
how strong 
and soft. 

As I hold 
my heart, I feel 
how kind my hands are, 
how kind 
and loving.

As I feel my hands 
holding my heart, 
I wonder how it took me so long 
to feel.

Abby Kraai
Dec 15, 2023

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To read more about the inspiration behind this piece, or to join me in this creative journey, you can read last week’s post, or simply follow the prompt below:

• Choose one part of your body, then write or create something inspired by that part. It can be a poem, an essay, a song - even a painting or a dance! Whatever the creation, let it be an exploration of your own body, and all the bodies you have been influenced by: parents, ancestors, friends, enemies, doctors, teachers, therapists, pets…

Our next prompt is: THROAT.

See you next Friday… :)

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Winter Events w/ Abby

• Winter Solstice Practice // Thurs, Dec 21, 6-8pm

• New Year’s Day Practice // Mon, Jan 1, 1-3pm

• Yoga for Beginners // Thursdays, Jan 4-25, 6-7:30pm

• Mexico Retreat // Feb 24-Mar 2 (Register by Jan 1)