the non-metaphorical symbolism of hands

I have a very complex relationship with my hands. I think I think about them more than most people do about theirs.

Maybe it’s because, in literature, someone's hands are often used to tell a story, or mentioned in poems, filled with metaphors and symbolism. Hands are never just hands, if hands at all; they are similes and analogies, a figurative or metaphorical way to describe a journey, a person, or a feeling. It fascinates me.

However, my own two hands are just hands. Painfully physical and literal, there is nothing metaphorical about the scars or calluses.; they are all so woefully real. Whatever symbolism or metaphors one can find or make out of the history in my hands, their actions are literal and really happened.

These hands have, without any metaphors involved, been covered and stained with blood. Most of the time, it has been my own; not always, but most of the time. . They are covered in scars and decades-old calluses; I have a freckle on my right ring finger, and the back of both my hands are marked by third-degree burn scars. My palms are big enough to fit a thirteen-week-old kitten in one hand. Sometimes I lose the feeling and mobility of two fingers, and my right wrist is almost always in a brace. I can easily open even the most stubborn jar, and I accidentally break the caps of bottles by tightening them too hard. I wear gloves in a men’s size large, and everything but the inside is covered in thick blonde hair. I have a pianist span width and long, slender fingers. My nails are either claw-shaped acrylics or bare nails trimmed to the stub. In total, five stitches have held together my fingers on different occasions. I can always warm my friends' hands in mine in the winter.

These hands have helped build houses and laid roofs. They have drawn over a dozen life-like portraits of babies; when I was thirteen, I had to use them to suffocate a four-year-old until she passed out to save her life. 

I have twinned a thousand braids and bandaged hundred of scrapes; my thumbs have wiped away countless tears. Every summer, I painted houses until the cracks in my palms were never entirely free from the flakes and stains. I have mended clothes with these hands and broken noses. The same hands who have thrown punches have made furniture from scratch.

My fingers have intertwined with my friends and traced the scars on the wrist of the boy who taught me gentleness. 

Once, I stabbed a man in self-defence, I don’t regret it, but sometimes I still see his blood on my hands. No amount of soap and water or time will ever wash away the memory.  I was eleven years old.

There is so much history in these two hands, but there is so much future in them too. I watch them as I use them, and I marvel. I cook homemade meals from the very first start and pen poetry that eases my heart. I wrap my sprained ankle and massage out the kinks in my neck. An endless stream of sketchbooks and canvases bear my fingerprints. My cats turn into purring puddles under my pettings, and my best friend trusts them to be steady when I apply his mascara.

These hands have always worked, been strong, and always created; now they get to be tender too. I cherish it. I savour every moment of gentleness; every time, I get to use my two hands softly, kindly.

My hands are hands of rough labour; they have too many calluses and scars to ever be soft. My fingerprints are almost worn off in places, and sometimes, my fingertips are too cold for touchscreens to respond. But now, the reason for getting stitches are cooking accidents, and calluses come from woodwork and archery.

My hands are just hands, painfully literal and real. However, when I look at them, I never see just hands. I don’t think I ever will. When I look at my hands, I see them for the metaphors they aren’t. I see the symbolism in the very physical scars. It’s impossible for me to look at my hands and not see all their history.

But I am okay with that. I don’t mind the traces of my past; I will never be able to forget it either way. And it’s a reminder of how the life I live now is so different from the one I had to survive.

These two good hands have known so much violence, but they are mine. Reliable and functional. They will never be innocent, but they are still good, still capable of being gentle.

And so am I.