I catch a glimpse of them and something draws my eye downwards.
I glance down and begin to frown.
It’s another thing on my body I am disappointed with.
They are wrinkled and the veins are bold.
My knuckles are rough, showing signs of tedious work.
There are lines making a permanent home in the once soft skin.
There is an indentation where my wedding band sits.
My nails are short and not always polished perfectly.
These hands are not pretty.
But the stories? The background?
Does that shine through?
These hands have intertwined with my husband’s, giving him strength and hope and love.
They have held onto his as we stood at the altar taking our vows.
They have welcomed a brand new baby into our family.
They have held an infant during hours of feedings.
They have rocked our little ones countless hours until they fell asleep.
These hands have wiped faces and changed diapers.
They have nursed sick children back to health.
They have tucked little ones in each night and traced their soft sleeping faces.
They have rubbed backs and grazed arms as a sign of love and gentleness.
They have held tiny hands in theirs, showing that they are safe. Secure. Home.
These hands hold stories. Moments. Memories.
They may not look pretty, but they are beautiful.