Slight of Hand

my fingertips punch the keyboard of the laptop. it's beautiful to see my hands move this way. the fingers dance around and i think about how the letters are put in their place so perfectly. the balance there was for the number of vowels distinguished for each hand and the number each hand does with the tapping. it's just so interesting to see my fingers do their thing. typing had become a natural motor skill imbedded into my dna. i think and type and it all looks so weird. i sit here and type and watch as my mind thinks about what i want to be typing and how it translates to these fingers. sometimes i think i should be able to play the piano with hands this crazy. i could be a surgeon- just hand me the endoscopic scissors, give me a reading on blood pressure and do you concur? yes or no? do you or do you not, concur?! i was voted number one finger painter in second grade making little ryan king cry like a seven year old. when he wiped the tears off his face and hyperventilated uncontrollably, i just looked down at my hands palms up twinkling my fingers as if they were magical. i mean, look what i did to the kid. i looked up and there was an unusual ring glowing about my forehead. my parents and people always told me not to point and it made my fingers seem more mysterious. pointing was forbidden. they had the power to curse. but i love sign language. some gestures are so simple and poetic to convey a meaning. it never seemed too complicated, but it was a secret language that mystified me. i would watch an episode on television of people just signing. sometimes these hands play rock, paper, scissor. sometimes these hands model gloves. they've helped people off the ground, they've brushed through sand and have done oil changes. they've felt sticky, soft and raw. sometimes my hands get nervous and sweat. they've grazed soft skin and picked noses.
i wash them everyday along with memories of where they've been. the eyes stare most of the attention. but today my eyes watch my hands. i started to remember these friends of mine and they look foreign, but most of the time, i never focus on my hands. it was always about what they held. that was what was always important. the rumpled lincoln on a bill, the leather on a baseball, other people's hands, running water, business cards, a banana ....
but today, i'm checking my hands out. what a beautiful thing it is.