My hands are always moving.
They proclaim how I much I like to write, know by memory
the symbols
the letters
the numbers of computer keyboards I have grown to know so much better since March.
My hands might tell someone I am married if they know the secret code.
These same hands boast of the places I have been, proudly wearing rings of different continents and different adventures.
They always join me in conversations, dancing around as a part of each story I tell.
They hold the books, the pages, that have comforted me as I fall into portals of imagination.
No matter how many unexplained scratches or cut they hold, my hands are still here
moisturized excessively
usually with shea butter
