handle with care

i enjoy examining hands. my own, of course, are most frequently subjected to scrutiny; but those of others are fair game as well. my left hand is more interesting than my right, at the moment. it is graced with, beyond its usual collection of scars and freckles, the following: the digits 4322, a band-aid on the first finger (covering a paper cut - well, a mat board cut), a small oval stain of black ink just below the first knuckle of the first finger on the palm side, a small stain of blue ink at the base of the middle finger on the palm side, a small round bruise at the base of the thumb on the back side, a nearly microscopic scab in the first knuckle of the first finger on the back side, an almost-healed burn at the base of the small finger on the back side, a short vertical incision in the first knuckle of the ring finger on the back side, and a small cut that travels lengthwise down the middle of the ring finger.
my hands have never been delicate. they are tools, and ones that i use constantly. i don't believe in keeping my hands clean. my hands know things that even my brain is not privy to. they can work on their own.
i can tell you about the hands of my favorite people, in great detail. how they feel, how they look, what they know. I's hands are large, broad and square. his fingertips are smooth but his palms are rough and calloused. he has a scar on his left ring finger that feels like it was made from some other person's skin. D's hands are long and thin, his fingers are smooth and feel delicate; their strength is surprising, and astounding. they dance, quickly and elegantly, about whatever task he sets them to, dexterous and agile.
someone told me once that the eyes may be the window to the soul, but hands are the mirror of the heart. perhaps this is true. perhaps this is why i look.