I never have been a big fan of the way my hands look. They’re a nice combination of my father’s & mother’s, with dad’s wide thumbs & fingernails & mom’s crinkly skin. It’s the latter that has always been a bit odd. I know mom has the same type of skin that shows every crease like a map of an elaborate tube system, but if hers is the London Underground (somewhat nicely laid out and organized) mine is New York (there’s how many lines??). My friends’ hands always seemed so smooth & perfect, even in the arid winters in Illinois. No matter how much lotion or oils I applied, I would just grease up those subway lines, but never smooth them out.
On a flight tonight, just before dusk settled in, I noticed the lighting and what interesting patterns I could see on my hands. The shadows created in the gullies, the highlights of the tendons and veins, and the way those lines change directions around knuckles reminded me of pink elephant skin. My hands have always been useful, but this was the first time I ever thought of them as beautiful.