Hands

Michelle Fang

edited: Kashvi Ramani

A frigid gray fog settles over the world,

Muffling every angle and ray of light under a thick inky blanket. I shrink into my overcoat 

and rub my hands together, 

Trying to subdue the shiver of crisp, cool air rattling up my bones. Nainai wraps her hands around mine; 

I jump silently at the sudden touch of sandpaper skin. 

As a child, I’d trace my dad's smooth palms 

and ask how a lady’s hands could be so unbecoming as Nainai’s. His response chronicled his mother’s days in the kitchen 

or her days lifting timber to earn five cents 

or her days training at a military academy. 

Her days, he’d smile, spent ensuring we never had hands like hers. 

No matter how passionate a speech my dad gave, 

I would still feel the slight tug of dread in my stomach 

on our visits to her apartment 

knowing my cheeks would be polished scarlet by Nainai’s sandpaper hands. 

A brittle biting breeze parts my hair and fans out on my neck; 

the chill is softened. 

On this night, Nainai’s hands are calloused, neglected, and graceless as always, But they are warm as well 

And they carve out my world in a rare honey glow.

← Edition Menu