There are moments I loathe strongly dislike my hands
I examine them and I see:
Knobbly fingers with bumps marking knuckles
Sparse patches of thin hairs like stubborn weeds
Cuticles that are failing me after sixteen years of existence
That one fingernail with its too-wide white band because I accidentally cut it too short once (only once!)
Stumbling piano fingers

But then I look again and I see:
Viola fingers, my violin teacher calls them, because they are long enough to pose on and strut down that catwalk of a fingerboard
These are the fingers and hands that brought joy to a six-year-old girl as we both struggled to play chopsticks, slide and lemonade
(I wonder if she will remember me…)
The ring finger writing callus— have I written enough to justify it?

And then sometimes… there are moments when I think to myself:
I am proud of them. Yes… yes! I am, I am.

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