In thou of Ugliest Hands
Since childhood I never wonder why I’m having the ugliest hands. I know it is not smooth as a candle either soft as cotton. It is a small hand with the appearance for the old ones.
In year and years of my life it is continuously fractured from the outside.
At the aged of four I drew before I learned to write my first name. Once by mistake I stitched my finger in a sewing machine when I’m twelve in a practiced to join a division sewing competition. It’s hardened by a home made glue to make a paper mosaic. Maybe twice or thrice I hammered it and the nail got died for making wooden crafts. It is painted by different colors of oil pastel, water colors, dyed, charcoal, acrylic, pencil and pen. Pottery and sculpturing that made it whitened and dusted. Tired in writing poems, essays and short stories in times I don’t have a personal computer to use. Burned and cut to design fruits and vegetables during food presentation. I can’t count how many “pastillas” and pastries I did for sale to have an extra income when I’m in college. Boxes of company files I arranged and to confirmed until midnight.
Should I feel bashful to shake hands neither a French men nor other people, I don’t think so.
Time to times I look at it; it’s getting more beautiful and meaningful and I can’t see anymore my ugliest hands.
