It was originally a writing prompt I read in a poetry book. My page exploded. It really hit deeply. This is what was created from those pages. Thank you for reading Cathy Bird
It's so true. Using hands as the reflections of our doings, which often contradict the memory of eyes, brains, hearts, maybe even souls was such a sublime idea. I love it!
This piece feels like someone holding their own hands and finally seeing the life theyāve carried without ever naming it.
Thereās something incredibly tender in the way the poem turns ordinary gestures into a kind of quiet autobiography.
The small acts pouring tea, wiping tears, holding children suddenly feel like whole chapters of a life.
The line about grief learning our fingerprints before we had words for it hits with a truth that sits heavy.
I love how the poem honors the invisible labor, the love expressed through chores, the apologies swallowed into silence.
Strength here isnāt loud; it settles into the palms and knuckles slowly, almost secretly, like sediment.
The hands become a map of endurance, softness, and the courage to stay present even when it hurts.
Thereās a real tenderness in realizing that none of these gestures were ever ājustā anything they were survival, devotion, history.
Touch becomes memory, and the body becomes the place where stories live when language fails.
By the end, the poem gently asks us to look at our own hands and finally acknowledge everything theyāve held, everything theyāve endured, and everything theyāre still choosing.
First of all, I must give this a hand of applause ššš
This had so much to reflect upon and the unique journey your hands go on, heal and help, who they touch and love. This truly was a great read. āļøššš
I really love this one, Franky. Such a heartfelt and beautifully written invitation to witness our lives in our hands. :-)
It was originally a writing prompt I read in a poetry book. My page exploded. It really hit deeply. This is what was created from those pages. Thank you for reading Cathy Bird
It's so true. Using hands as the reflections of our doings, which often contradict the memory of eyes, brains, hearts, maybe even souls was such a sublime idea. I love it!
Really nice reflection Thankyouš
This piece feels like someone holding their own hands and finally seeing the life theyāve carried without ever naming it.
Thereās something incredibly tender in the way the poem turns ordinary gestures into a kind of quiet autobiography.
The small acts pouring tea, wiping tears, holding children suddenly feel like whole chapters of a life.
The line about grief learning our fingerprints before we had words for it hits with a truth that sits heavy.
I love how the poem honors the invisible labor, the love expressed through chores, the apologies swallowed into silence.
Strength here isnāt loud; it settles into the palms and knuckles slowly, almost secretly, like sediment.
The hands become a map of endurance, softness, and the courage to stay present even when it hurts.
Thereās a real tenderness in realizing that none of these gestures were ever ājustā anything they were survival, devotion, history.
Touch becomes memory, and the body becomes the place where stories live when language fails.
By the end, the poem gently asks us to look at our own hands and finally acknowledge everything theyāve held, everything theyāve endured, and everything theyāre still choosing.
Beautiful, I will not look at my hands the way I used to . Now I will search for the stories they hold . Thank you š§”
First of all, I must give this a hand of applause ššš
This had so much to reflect upon and the unique journey your hands go on, heal and help, who they touch and love. This truly was a great read. āļøššš
Thankyou Lyon i appreciate you taking the time to read and comment š«¶š¼