2007-02-19
handgrid
In her hands, she holds ours. Her fingertips trace the creases, tickling the folds as her skin brushes past. We each crouch down to match her examining pose, seeking meaning in the lines of our own palms, following her gaze and drifting along with her intuitive vibes.
She cradles each mark, every wrinkle we�ve acquired over the past two decades in whatsoever ways we�ve used our hands. She�s pursuing our essences, witnessing the crinkles and pleats we impressed upon our skin with every hand posed to write, every finger bent to knit, every fist clenched, palm grasped, and every hand that has cradled another with love and friendship.
She speaks sagely yet hesitantly, grazing the surface of our hands like how kids search for the small plastic rings at the bottom of a pool. Some of our life lines careen and are metaphorically etched with undulating uncertainty; others of us have strong love lines, and uniquely curved fingertips that show our desire for harmony in our lives. Most of us seek the utmost respect in romantic relationships, and we are slightly unsure of our social roles, she tells us as she takes turns glancing from palms to faces and keeping track of names.
We flex and slightly mold her words to what we know to be our own personal truths. She is artistic in a very intimate way. She is blunt and sometimes quite lonely. I am self aware.
I sit here now, drawing over the lines of one hand with the index finger of the other.
Here are my hands: rosy-peach and grooved. I don�t really know what my palm means, and I don�t know if she knows either. But the lines are here, like one chaotic grid, intersecting, diverging, swooping.
leesah-likes at 11:17 p.m.