The Hand Of Life

I don't know why, but I have always been fascinated by hands. I started drawing, and sketching hands holding things, or just held naturally. I think it is because as a little girl, I would always clasp my dad's big strong hand for security. I knew the familiar feel to his worn out golfer's palm. My mother's hands were so different, they were soft and worn, with lines that marked all the love she had poured from them. So it is with this that I began sketching and becoming aware of the little things that made everyones unique and different. I'd always like to imagine a story behind them. One thing I can recall is that my highschool boyfriend had big hands, that were great for baseball, and yet they were probably softer than mine. His thumbnail was flat and so wide. He wore his silver ring on his middle finger. It's funny how much I can remember about them, but come to think of it, I know a lot about my current boyfriend's hands too. His, he says, are magical...that will someday stitch up an open heart, or suture an open wound. His hands are larger than life on his slim frame, and I think they look like boxing mits, or paws. He has a scar, that he often rubs, on his inner wrist. I guess that is something I've never really thought about until now.