Prompt 13: If My Hands Could Talk

Much like the infamous title of one of Clint Eastwood's greatest movies, if my hands could talk, they would weave a tale of some good, some bad, and a sprinkling of downright nasty. But mostly nasty. From early childhood until this very moment as I quickly pluck the keys of this computer, they both have a similar tale, yet both have their own creases, wrinkles, and scars. Personally, I think my right has received the brunt of all the punishment I can deal, but I'll try to stay neutral and just tell their story.

I have been touching things all my life, so I know quite a lot about the subject. Based on my assessment of all the things I can recollect touching, my hands would likely complain to you and tell you how horrible I am. But what they won't tell you is all the great things I've touched. Like puppies, peanut butter right out of the jug, and raindrops. As recently as a few weeks ago, I touched around two pounds of BBQ smoked pork ribs. How can my hands possibly say anything bad about that other than to complain that they don't have mouths to eat the ribs? This summer I touched fireworks and freshly cleaned shirts. I touched jelly and often repeatedly rubbed my belly. I shot guns and buttered oven fresh buns. In a court of law, if I were to argue against my hands, I would have to say that life is pretty good.

But I won't be partisan and only tell you all the good, I'll tell you some bad as well. If my hands could speak they would likely tell you of the needle pokes I routinely get from clumsily doing my job. The occasional broken tissue paper when I blow my nose. Or even clipping my toenails. I have sympathy when all these things occur. Yet I believe the good outweighs the bad. Unless you throw on the dead mouse I had to pick up, the sweaty hands I've had to shake, or even the countless burns my hands have incurred. From tripping into a campfire and having burning marshmallow stuck to my left palm to picking up a red hot grill plate with my right, I have indeed inflicted a great deal upon my hands. But look at the good things! Well, except for the things that my hands touched as a baby.

From poop to cheerios, my hands would likely declare war on me, if they could, and succeed for the things I touched in my formative years. While I can't remember my early years, my mother certainly does. She tells me that I never did one of those crazy smear poop on the walls disasters, but she has also never denied that I touched it. I can't imagine my hands would be to pleased with coming onto contact with these type of substances. But that is also assuming that they would have any concept of what is gross or not gross at such a young age. Maybe just as I was unaware of what was going on as a baby, my hands were as well. Maybe they don't actually know all of what they have touched at all.  That is to say if they did not hear it from me sitting here, spilling the beans, and telling them all about it. So how about we forget about this entire piece of writing all together. We'll just keep it between us and not tell my hands. Oh if my hands could hear!