Everyone in my family has large hands that are strong enough to break a rock. I am a little different, somewhere in my family tree I was given tiny hands. Although, I children's gloves are my best friends, my hands are fierce like fire. On occasion, bulky items make my hands sad because I can’t pick items up in a swift movement. Every crease in the palm of my hand cries for hard work. Unlike me, my sister has hands that can hold a basketball with one hand. My hand only fits in the palm of hers. Like a baseball in a mitt. She needs no help to open an angry jar and finds ease in carrying more than three golf balls in one hand. There is a light in her hands that make her hands fast and coordinated like a cheetah. Her large and fast hands make sports a breeze, her hands make her athletic. Her brave hands make catching a fast softball seem like catching a pillow. 
My hands hardly compare to my sister’s hands. Compared to hers, my hands seem weak and worn down. But, my hands keep me going. They help me write like I am in a race. Speeding to the finish line.  My hands are my flaw, but my hands are mine.