My family is a twisted mess of fingers, knuckles, and palms. My father’s hands are like the double-knot of a boat rope, worn and strong. My mother’s hands are tired, but accomplish a phenomenal amount for nothing but a collection of muscle and bone. My older sister’s hands are soft and pretty and like shooting stars in the way that you don’t see them a lot. Her children’s hands are tiny and innocent. My brother’s hands are humongous-- capable of holding everything from footballs to responsibilities. My little sister’s hands are like mine, but much better at flipping pancakes and solving math problems.

But my hands are different. They’re always cold and covered in drawings and words. They squeeze pencils so tight my muscles scream and cramp by the end of each sketch. Sometimes pain adorns my nails, but neither hand wears the same color and chips are scratched off by the plethora of trouble these extremities get me into. My fingers hold hands, hold dishes, hold thoughts. They work together with my knuckles and my palms to form tools of creation and destruction and ways for me to turn what’s on my mind into what’s on my paper. My hands are small and capable and strong-- just like my families’.