My hand. What a thing, with muscles and bones, tendons, veins, skin covering it. But also with stories. When I look at my hand I remember. Burn scars, from when I touched the kettle of the popcorn maker, trying to grab a piece before it burns, nail marks from where I would hold onto to tight. Upset with myself. Late nights at my computer, writing stories that have blossomed in my mind, the characters my only friend in the dark abyss of my room. My hand moves automatically, fingers grasping and moving strands of hair to form a braid, or to fidget, tapping out a random beats till people around me go mad. But I don't only remember, I also think. What will my hands do? Will they be part of something important? Will they hold hands so small and smooth as I look down into the colorless eyes of my child? Will they create? Will they give life to all who run rampage in my mind? But most of all, will they become part of me? Now they seem detached, fumbling when I need them graceful, moving when I talk, making people smile at me in a way I know is more than just humbly amused. My hands are everything in my life, or at least bring me what's good along with the bad. I look down at my hands and smile. Thank you. Thank you both. The givers of light, the molder of though, my pathway to life.