My Hands

People always look at me and tell me that my hands are small.
Like it is something that makes me vulnerable
Adorable
Unable to fend for myself.
I looked down at my hands today.
They are small
And scarred
And soft
And warm
And alive
And yes.
My hands are tiny.
There's nothing I can do about that.
But it's not a disadvantage.
These hands held my mother's hand as I crossed the street when I was little.
These hands write the poems, scrawling over the paper from my mind.
These hands play the music, pulling it from my cello.
These hands formed a fist that made me feared.
These hands made my first tackle in football.
These hands grabbed other's hands when my fear of the dark was too much.
These hands show what I am trying to say. Spelling out my life in signs.
These hands held my sister's smaller hand as I walked her to the bus stop.
These hands picked out my first fuzzy best friend.
These hands shook the hands of new people I have met.
These hands wiped away my saltwater tears from my eyes.
These hands wiped the fog off the window so I could see.
These hands typed my story.
These hands punched the air when I accomplished something.
These hands are raised when I know the answer to a question.
These hands hold my blankets around my body at night.
These hands have been held out to help someone up if they fall.
These hands have made art.
Paintings
And drawings
And pictures
And poetry
And music.
These hands cover my laugh when I'm not supposed to be laughing.
These hands are too small to wrap a football, or a wrist, or hang on to anything.
But I try.
I hold on as hard as I can.
My small hands
Grasping to save what is falling.
My hands are not a disadvantage.
My hands can create
And play
And help
And hurt
And cover my laugh
And wipe away my tears
And write my poems.

My hands can be strong