These Hands

The Shape of a Life

Original graphite sketch by the author.

Knuckles bow like worn cathedral doors,

hinges creaking beneath the weight of years.

In the hollows between fingers,

dust from candle smoke settles—

a faint gray memory of midnight vigils,

where shadows leaned close to listen

and wax wept slow rivers down brass.

The skin is a map of fine rivers,

each vein carrying the blue of unshed storms.

The faint scent of frankincense

clings to the lifeline’s curve,

as if the air itself once knelt there,

leaving its breath behind.

They have cupped rain in famine.

Pressed into earth until soil

streaked the creases like old ink.

They have lifted bread still steaming

into the mouths of the weary,

buttoned coats against winter,

peeled oranges over kitchen sinks,

and caught the trembling of a child’s first cry

before the world could name it.

In winter, they hovered over embers,

palms open to the orange pulse of survival.

In summer, they shielded tired eyes

from a sun too bright for sorrow.

They have known the weight of coins

slipped quietly into another’s hand,

and the unbearable pause

before letting go

of the hand they loved,

when warmth became memory.

Now they rest,

still as carved marble,

yet trembling faintly—

as if some small wind inside them

has not finished speaking.

And if you leaned close enough,

you might hear it:

the rustle of bread paper,

the scrape of a garden spade,

rain against a church roof,

a kettle singing in another room,

and every silence

they have carried without breaking.

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