Too blonde to be a rebel. Too quiet to be a leader. Too wild to be tamed. Too soft-spoken to be heard. A little girl has written her life in between the lines of college ruled notebook paper. Some words escape through the shouting. Some words never find their way into this world, they are her absolute hidden secrets never to be typed onto the screen.
Transparency blazing forth revealing small bits to a soul, my soul. I’m your little girl.
We were once children cloaked in lily white innocence. The years caused stains, and chipped away at the magical belief ‘everything is okay.’ Ugliness combined with hurt are slung to conjure one’s own facade.
I have a hard time holding my mask over truth seeking eyes. My hands fumble and I can’t seem to tie the ribbons around the back of my head; my mask falls to the floor.
Toh-Kay is singing “40 Days.”
“I’ve tasted seven sins, so they won’t let me in
I knock knock knock until my knuckles are bruised and raw.“
Today my child slapped me. We have these outbursts almost every evening. Even when the tears fill my eyes because another male has struck my face, I ask the child to show me his hands. He holds them up and I say, “Our hands are for kindness. We do good things with our hands. Hands are not for hurting.”
Our hands are the first part to touch another, a handshake. Our hands are the first connection we have when holding our children upon their birth. Hands plant gardens, they nurture and tend to the dried out rocky soil. They are the first sign we extend in love as we hold our partner’s hand.
We slip wedding rings on our fingers as our mouths utter nervous, unsure vows. We wrap our arms around the ones we love, and our hands are the first to make the tight grip connection. We give pats on the back. Fingers caress sweaty, messy hair as my head hangs down staring at the floor crying. Hands palm my face as eyes say to my soul, “I love you.”
The extension to life is the hands. They operate the most powerful machines, our computers. Our fingers type away ‘happy birthday’ greetings, they congratulate each person on accomplishments. They have replaced the handwriting which once sent postcards, greeting cards, and actual letters.
My hands provide only a glimpse into my story. They tell you about a Terrific little boy who I love more than life itself. I often say, “I love you more than all the universe.” Those words right there, are the words that make me the happiest to type.
Toh-Kay is still singing,
“Stuck in the middle with my blood in a puddle on the floor
We made our beds, we’ll judge ourselves.”
I’ve typed things which are not easy to relive, but they bear a certain ease for my hands to translate them. My hands show every beautiful imperfection I have lived thus far. And I lay “with my blood in a puddle on the floor.”
When I depart to my heaven or hell, I will have spilled forth every story which is mine. My hands will have typed thousands upon thousands of words. A little boy’s life will be accounted for because my hands created a storybook written for him. He matters that much to me. My relationships and my friendships will be told with their flaws blinding the world. My love will have been expressed. A heart will be exposed, all because of my two petite hands.
Our hands are for good things. Our hands are for kindness. Our hands should never hurt another.