Hands

By Bianca Glogovac

Our comfort or discomfort lies within each

individual finger. Which finger usually points What hand is dominant? Do your hands try to keep up with your mouth? Which finger do you always crack?  The gateway touch gives a deep sensitivity to comfort and warmth. A lighter that comes in an alternative form that curves so beautifully, touch goes beyond a lighter. The design highlights touch embracing life. The work of our hands can be transcended through art or the comforts of our home. 

With every age I am and am growing to be, my touch stays my truth. What is more or less than a touch? Infants highly depend on touch for the first form of sensory stimulation, the first contact a human has. For a blind man or woman, touch is a small piece of a language. My hands are my language, and my hands will paint my life.

Every move I create, my hands manifest a path. They might just be the most powerful instrument connected to my body besides my own mind, the truth of my work weighs in my palms and my past portrays itself with every bookmark I gain on my hands and fingers. Every fold in my palm holds a story, the tips of my fingertips hold no more sensitivity to heat. Some hands hold heavy pasts, I understand there are voices that never speak but their hands continue to work. The weight of my work is held in the middle of my palms, my hands. For every sheet I’ve folded, every meal I’ve prepared, every fruit that’s been harvested, when my hands are my work, they are my life. The labor of my work is my comfort, the depth of my hands holds my warmth and fragility. I know my mother loves me because of her hands. Hands that joyfully accept botched attempts at gifts, hands that cleaned after work was over, hands that kept meals on the table, without speaking a single word, my mother’s hands tell me it all. Her calloused palms, and a ring finger that permanently is out of place, she unfolds her love for me with the labor of her hands. While my hands control the sensitivity to my environments, they remind me of love. I believe my hands speak for me because of what is bundled inside, and how I try to open my paths to me. The love my body provides me is unmeasurable because I am alive, my hands seek paths to grab, and maintain my love. The zipper of interlocked hands is the simplest form of communication. My hands clasp for prayer, the voice within my palms is only trying to provide and bring me my truth. Yet my hands are always holding for purpose, and continue to ensure my purpose.  As I grow, I am taught to hold for not too long and not too short, not too heavy, not too soft, and yet when I was younger, it was a high five. As life begins to complicate, your hands hold a truth that admits when in action. History proceeds in fire and rage but a warrior’s fist is only a hand when alone.