And as I look down at your hands, I think of all the things they have done over the years. The people they have helped, the things they have built, the lovers they have touched. It is almost overwhelming to think of how much kindness they have humbly given.
I play with your fingers as if searching for the secrets to their kindness, twisting and twirling them around my own. They look so different from anyone elses, but they are exactly the same. How could this be? I turn them over and slowly trace the lines on your palm with my fingers. Could it be that I know them differently to everyone else? The thought makes me blush as it crosses my mind. I place them down and start to examine my own.
Were my own of the same kind? Surely not, I still remember the time when in tenth grade a kid broke my skin with the nib of a pen, leaving a mark to this very day. I was so angry. And when I deliberately cut a line on the back of my thumb to