My Life On My Hands Anonymous

My legs dangled high above the ground as I sat next to my mom on the train. As I fidgeted the way little children do, my mother spoke to me. “You have plump fingers, not thin and bony like mine.” I frowned at her as she held my then tiny hands in hers. She continued, “This is a very good thing. Round, full hands like yours do not do hard work. They are made to be pampered.” I doubtfully glared at my digits. She laughed and proceeded to tickle me silly with her long-fingered, sandpapery hands. Though time has proven my mother right about most everything else, I remain unconvinced about that one claim. Despite their appearance, my hands are not for show. They, like my eyes and mind, are my tools, but unlike the latter two, they showcase who I am to anyone who cares to look.

From a distance, my hands resemble those of a little girl. They fit the smallest-sized gloves and my fingers can’t stretch wide enough to palm a grapefruit. Mostly, people only notice my hands when I paint my nails. On special days, they are decked in bright colors and dramatic patterns to fit my mood. Sometimes those days are holidays, but more often, those days are special because of competitions or major tests. On nights when I stay up late studying, I keep...