hands to hold (draft)
it must have been my mother’s hand, i thought. the first thing i’ve ever held.
was it cruelty that we don’t cradle and keep every memory we create? every synapse of the nerves, every connection made. i look at my textured hands and wonder how many blessings it has received, how many pains it has endured, and how many more palms it has to hold. why did i forget my mother’s face when my skin first touched hers? was there a smile? i could hear an infant’s cry, the doctor’s pronunciation of my life. warm, i would think, if i could remember my mother’s caress.
these hands were used to hold a pen. to write words to exorcise this damned soul and to free the prisoner in my head. sometimes the pen opens merely a window, but i’d allow myself some time to look still. for i, too, was my own jailor. these hands have ached, writing words after words. a letter after the next, until a confession was formed. these hands were the culprit behind my best friend’s tears i’ve only witnessed twice. these hands have sinned, forever stuck palm to palm in repentance.
there’s nothing noble in the things i do. i take my time and what little that could be called skills, fi
i dream of permanence, i’ve confessed over and over. something that would transcend a lifetime, repeated like a broken record. no, a prayer. now God has given me a soul identical to mine, and i fear my fingers would betray this string holding her and i. it’s not a brittle one, but my own nerves and bloodstream threaten to sever the line. i’ll hold onto it every day—bleeding or broken or whole. i finally am given something to hold, so i will use these hands to hold-
This is an unfinished draft of an unpublished piece originally dated April 21, 2025.