‘your hands! look at them! they are all rough like a man’ my mother would moan, after a few hours playing on the monkey bars at the school’s playground. how I loved testing my strength and seeing how far I could leap and catch myself on those bars.
hockey sticks, racquets, sprints, you couldn’t stop me, or my rough hands - at my mother’s disproval
dipping them into flour, stretching dough, stripping all natural oils washing hands all throughout those 15 hour days
learning to burn fingertips - ‘get use to the oil splats, it’s nothing’.
offering both hands out
learning to reach out with one, and keeping one to myself
having no control and having both hands away from me
to carry the ones in need, to play and to cherish all child like wonder
pushing myself down
holding on to what makes sense, i build myself back up
the sensations of clay and sculpting
stating fire with movements
ma, my hands have been blistered, ripped, handled my flaws and crafting my dreams. ‘rough like a man’ or ‘flawed but grasping patience’ ?