Hands that remember
I looked down. Weathered, broken, old. The thoughts that came to my mind upon initial glance. Then, hardened, beautiful, strong. Give your mind a second chance to form an opinion.
My hands were once meant for typing, and caressing faces, touching paintings in an abandoned art gallery secretly, sneakily. Frenzied tearing of clothing, sweat laden palms driving frenzied, haphazard pleasure.
Now, my hands are for painting, for holding babies, for preparing meals. Through all of the mundane, and the slightly obtuse- my Hands let me create, and form, and support my life as it was. And as it is now. They remember what they’ve done, and are forever celebrating with touch.
An Excellent Meal
Under my skin, I fantasize about secrets in my mind. I look inward and see what could be there, but what isn't. The fantasies of a better life, of a better person, of a better world. Which, if I were being objective would be difficult to execute all on one's own. But with my subjective view, should be clearly handled every day by myself in an exquisite manner. This way to the stove please.. Oh, you mean this meal? The ceviche appetizer with a peppering of light crunch on top, followed by a perfectly cooked filet mignon sautéed in butter? Simple lava cake finish with deconstructed ice cream topper melted on upon serving the dish? Yes, that dish. How decadent, what an amazing cook and excellent entertainer you are! Then I look down and find chicken nuggets and steamed broccoli. A packaged Oreo for dessert and some boxed ice cream. It was a nice imagining.
Now, realistically I know that I cannot be everything to everyone... but to be the perfect mother, the perfect executive, the perfect wife. That is the imagining.