On Hands

This morning the phone rang, I didn't recognize the number but something- the something that silently roars amidst conjoined hearts made me answer. "Hello", she said exhausted, and I knew it was bad news. I cupped my glass took a deep cleansing breath and lowered my lids for the blow. "He beat me up, again." In the moment, as my chest deflated, I was shamefully relieved; the lesser of two evils, I suppose. How bad could it be if she was able to call, I thought. Later, as my day went on I thought more deeply about the bruises we can't see, the ones which garner no sympathies, the ones that keep us awake at night into the day, and the scars they leave behind which never...never go away. Bruises that cross generations, miles and coasts and rest deeply in the gut's chasm.

I looked at my Yael Rose and flashes of the strong yet gentle hands that sweep hair from her eyes, light candles on birthday cakes, hands that tentatively, albeit tenaciously held the back of her bicycle on her very first ride; loving hands. I envision her enveloped by this membrane of peace and love, respect and fearlessness. I thought of art and music, paintings flashed through my mind's eye to the sound of violins singing. I thought of beautiful sculptures and historic monuments, I thought of all the wondrous creations of hands powered by love and couldn't factor in a single reason why anyone would willfully use these precious limbs for destruction. And, I thought some more, and I wondered, and I worried all day for both of them.

Peace and love