I am my hands. The pen marks all around my palms and the side of my fingers signify my love for writing in colorful ink. I refuse to write anything not required in all in black ink, in black ink. The cramps on my hand remind me of the Sundays filled with me playing my clarinet. Each finger has to cover a specific hole for specific notes, or else a squeaking sound will come out of the clarinet. My right thumb is placed under a back-piece of the instrument to support it, leaving my thumb aching. Every time I look at my long nails, I am reminded that I should cut them, but there’s never any time to do so. Between the typing of articles, writing of poems, and carrying of books, there’s no downtime. My hands help me reach for the pencil I’ve dropped for the fiftieth time. I try to catch it in the palm of my hand before it rolls under someone else’s chair. My hands help me write birthday letters and lengthy paragraphs of encouragement. The end of my thumb and index finger hold the pen and my other fingers support them while the tip of my pen touches the paper. My hands help me comfort a friend in need of emotional support by placing my warm hand over theirs, gently squeezing it. My hands help me excitedly wave to someone I recognize across the hall as I try to gain their attention. My hands help me tightly hug my best friend after a long, tiring day at school. They touch the back of his shirt with a firm grip, giving us both comfort.
Throughout my life, my hands have been there for me. From car accidents to test days to breakups and makeups, my hands have been with me. They are more than a part of my body. They are more than something connected to two of my limbs. My hands are my support. They help me pick myself up after I fall. They remind to relax as I clench and un-clench them in distress. Most importantly, through the support that my hands give me, I can support others.
Inside an Optimist's Mind 