When my second child was born, it was his hands that I marveled over. He had these amazingly big mitts! It reminded me of the way in which you can guesstimate how big a puppy will be by their big floppy feet. My boy had BIG hands. Granted, he was a 9.5lb baby, and his hands were in proportion to the rest of him, but still - I looked at those hands and could imagine how big and strong he'd be; like his daddy. I imagined the love he'd hold in those hands, the gentleness in them when he was grown. He's just a boy still, a large thrumming teen catapulting his way through these years on his way to adulthood and his hands have been everything I'd imagined so far - as well as few things I hadn't.
When my youngest arrived, everything about her was petite, tiny, a perfect package in exquisite detail. I loved her hands too - her fingers were so elegant, long and graceful, each finger perfectly formed. On the cusp of adolescence now, her hands are gentle and soft, still beautiful and long fingered, and always outward reaching.
In elementary school one year, my two youngest made these glass dishes formed partly by their hand imprints:
These days though I have them sitting right out on my dresser. They often hold the bits and peices of my days: earrings, pennies, paperclips, a guitar pick... the things from my pocket or my bedside table that I scoop up and deposit there.
And now they hold the love that I tripped over...
|Funny how things work out sometimes, isn't it?|