Friday January 27, 2017
When you hold up your twisted hands you forget that somewhere sometime ago they were new, and they were good. You wish the light wasn’t so damn revealing. You wish that old adage about knowing something like the back of your hand could stay true. You wish that you didn’t care about what they looked like, but they still feel like they are meant to be a reminder of vanity’s curse. The rain stings them more than you thought it would. Your daughters grabbing them to dance with you in the kitchen sting them more than you wish it would. You wish you believed in God for the days where reason doesn’t seem to be good enough. You wish you could open a jar without the help of your son, or the two dollar electric can opener from the Salvation Army.