Hands

I have small hands with short fingers. When I buy a golf glove my hand fits perfectly into the “cadet” size. I’ve never heard of “cadet” size except in a golf store. I guess they don’t want to say “try the women’s aisle”. I had a fortune teller at a party change the subject after she looked at my life line. Did she lose interest or shy away from the truth? That was thirty years ago. I can’t find the life line now. My hands look like Johnny Cash’s face. They’ve seen and touched life and death. They’ve traveled all over the world. I’ve had my nails manicured once in the Philippines. I didn’t know my cuticles could be so big and white or my nails so shiny and oval. These hands have gone from zero to two hundred miles per hour in less than four seconds, lifted five hundred fifty thousand pounds in one attempt and held shimmering wisps of light. The best thing about my hands is that they reach out to babies and children. They scoop them up before the little ones know what, when, where or who. These hands have no fear.