Graph #1

When I began to observe my hands, I thought to myself, "I'm still so young. There isn't much of a story to tell here, yet." But when I thought about all the things I've used my hands for, I realized that they have more of a story than much of the rest of me. I've used them to learn; touching things and playing with things when I was small. I've used them to clap in celebration. I've used them to survive; eating, drinking, and bathing myself would be difficult to do independently without any hands. I've used them to hurt others. I've used them to pray for forgiveness of those actions. I still use them for math: counting in my head was never an easy thing for me, nor math in general. I use them to hold hands with someone I love. I've broken them, they've been cut up, used mercilessly, and taken advantage of. My hands tell more stories: on my left hand, there is a small "X" between my thumb and index finger. This "X" was meant to be a symbol of an iron-strong friendship, but not a year later turned into a reminder of all the things I've crossed out of my past. Not necessarily things that I regret, but things of the past that aren't a part of my future. Every day, that "X" on my hand is a reminder that the only constant in our lives is change. On my right hand, there is a small, crescent-shaped scar on my index knuckle. This scar reminds me of when I was very young, and I wanted to help my mom around the house. While I was washing dishes, the brim of a drinking glass broke off onto my wrist, putting a small slice in my skin. Since then I've sported that scar as a reminder of my childhood. My skin is still soft, still smooth, and only wrinkling where it's naturally wrinkled since birth. I am only eighteen years old, but there is already a lifetime of stories to be told about my hands.