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HANDS
My father had industrious hands, the sort that could always hammer a nail straight
or construct a rabbit hutch in a weekend. The palms squareed off to fingers short and
stubby, with the nails just slightly on the long side. He didn't have much time for
keeping them up; he was too busy using them. But the thing about my father's hands was
that they belonged to my father. They were not the sort of hands that a little girl could
imagine touching her.
That's why my relationship with Tom was doomed from the start. His hands reminded me of my
father's, and I did not want them touching me. Sure, he would probably make a great
husband. His hands could do all those sorts of things, like screwing in light bulbs and
unjamming garbage disposals. But to picture those hands offering me a bouquet of roses on
our anniversary made me shudder. How could I think of them in those terms when they reeked
of parental authority?
copyright Susan "Sam" Madden
http://www.fortunecity.co.uk/meltingpot/clyde/207/
