Home > Reflection, Writing > Hands

Hands

There used to be a black speck near the bottom of my palm. That was from years and years ago, when I burned my hand on a joss stick. The burn wasn’t particularly painful, and I remember I took a while to notice I was getting burned, which is possibly why the mark’s been visible on the skin until recently. I was never a Buddhist, but I used to follow my father to the temple sometimes.

I remember sitting in the front passenger seat trying to scratch off the mark as my father drove home. It didn’t come off, and I thought perhaps it would come off with soap and water. It will probably be gone in the morning. It’ll probably disappear in a few days.

I used to be superstitious. Perhaps children generally are. I remember wondering if the speck on the lines of my palm was inauspicious, or if it would affect my fortune, the speck being situated as it was in the delta between the head and life lines. The circumstances in which I had managed to burn myself also magnified my superstitious worry. But the worry eventually faded into the many and indistinct concerns of my child’s mind.

The speck turned color from black to brown within a few years. Now, another few years later, it’s all but invisible. If I didn’t remember where it was, I don’t think I’d be able to distinguish it. My hands also happen to be uncommonly heavily-lined, which makes the speck even less easily distinguishable.

I remember once, when I was about eight, my dad observed how lined my hands were and told me not to ‘think so much’. I don’t think I’ve ever heeded the advice. It didn’t remotely resemble an admonition, but my dad hasn’t ever been one to demand.

I didn’t notice exactly when the speck disappeared, although I know it happened some time this year. In the two years or so gone by, though, the first things people notice when they look at my hands are the calluses. There are three on each hand, one each under my middle, ring and little fingers. The calluses developed from time spent on the chin-up bar. I added more hardened skin to my hands this year when I learned to play the bass. The fingertips on my left hand are slightly harder than those on my right from fretboard friction. My hands have grown quite rough with time.

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Categories: Reflection, Writing Tags: ,
  1. melbatoast
    16 December 2007 at 10:03 am

    haha…this is the first time i’ve read an entry like this. so cute… =)

  2. Idetrorce
    16 December 2007 at 10:56 am

    very interesting, but I don’t agree with you
    Idetrorce

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