My Hands

I have ugly hands, I thought. The fingers are uneven, the nails are not uniform. But what makes me not like them are my anxiety callouses on the index, thumb and their midpoint. On both hands. I press and rub on these areas when I’m stressed.

I guess they are the marks that say I didn’t hurt anyone or didn’t do anything stupid because I was not feeling good. My hands just took and bore the brunt. Four decades of it.

My source of insecurity for the greater part of my childhood was from my full lips. But that is long gone thanks to Angelina Jolie. The insecurity that lasted until now? My hands.

I gaze at my Nanay’s hands. Her hands that day in and day out do thankless jobs for the family and for everybody else.

Her hands are always cold. I held them recently and tried to warm them. I think they need circulation. Of course that’s the least of her worries because she always puts everyone first before herself.

I look at my hands. Mine are a photocopy of hers. They are beautiful.