My mother wrote a description of the things her hands had done once. It was a life story from the point of view of her hands. I read it and probably said something disconcerting about it, because I was a teen and reacted in the way teens do, pretending the fact that it was moving was somehow boring etc.

She told me, "When you are my age you may want to write about your hands every decade or so."

So here it goes...

My hands were seen as a clasped ball in an old ultrasound. They were large like my fathers. My hands were glad to find my mother and could not reach around my fathers finger.
I am sure he stared at my hands at some point after I was born and was proud that they were identical to his.
My hands grew in good conditions. Good enough conditions I had scarred them up well beyond most boys in my tinkering stages. They learned things at a young age most today will never know.
My hands learned work at a young age. They developed upon this fact, very stong and very articulate.
My hands have squeezed a lot of triggers, butchered many animals, caught many passes, welded, turned wrenches, stretched wire, milked cows, cut thousands of acres of trees, built many things, and been beaten and broken.
My hands have done good and bad things. They have held the hands of people as they drew their last breath and my children as they took their first.

My hands are aging quickly. They are arthritic and my knuckles have known the sting of cortisone. My hands have developed habit. They have failed many times but never quit. My hands have been cursed by my brother and praised at times.

They will always be ready to protect and provide. They are at full service to someone deemed worthy and in need. My hands have been a life saver for a few and a thump for others. Hurting some mornings, I have to work them to get the blood flowing.

My hands are soft for one woman, and a firm handshake for a new acquaintance. Dirt under the nail unless I have just clipped them, I have held millions of pounds of wood from hitting homes from many feet above. My hands are perfect though I am not. They are a blessing for many and try their best.

These hands know love, like a father his son. They have known hate and anger nearly as well. My hands will get more scarred, more arthritic, stronger for a time. They will age into something more, but mechanically less.

My hands are and are not a lot of things, but they always tell the truth. May the things I do with them be just as honest.