My hands, rings, nail polish, scars, experiences and all, they’re my hands. Chipped black nail polish decorates each long and unevenly filed nail and even over the outlines, showing the little time in my life to keep them polished and lady like. Two rings on two of the five crooked fingers I possess, one on the promise finger and one on the index. I could be philosophical and psychological and say there’s an ulterior meaning hidden behind this (maybe I expect a great marriage in the future and maybe I know exactly where I’m headed) but even as a not so simple girl with intricate thoughts I can reassure you it’s just a sense of style. Scars on two knuckles which don’t necessarily represent the effect of anger or frustration but simply a type of fragile skin that’s sensitive to even the softest scratch. Green and blue lines, visible from a couple of feet away illustrate the blood flow, showing it is alive and it is me, a human being like any other. Then again, the little crooks and crannies grown bigger and noticeable as my hands strains and curls in exasperation brought upon by daily mountainous piles of schoolwork and high expectations proclaim I am a single and unique subject, only one in existence. A little hole here, a little bump there, those are the things that make my hands original and one of a kind, a part of me no one can replicate. These same hands are the same ones which once tightly held on to a passport and visa as they one day left everything and everyone they knew behind in search of a better future. My hands, my palms, sweaty when in an anxious and nerve wrecking situations, help me get to know myself better, a part private to the rest of the world where feelings and emotions are free to roam. These same hands are the ones which two years after dropping everything they knew, suddenly held a railing on a cruise ship on its way to a tropical island in the middle of the Caribbean. Enjoyed every delicacy the sea had to offer and then some more while the ocean water of a privately owned island washed up on the hands exploring the simplicity and serenity of the white sand that kept the sea’s every secret. These are the hands that on a warm summer day in Miami stayed inside the whole time to enjoy the turn of a page of any fiction book in close enough range. Blue pen marks, sometimes faded and confusable with veins are evidence of my passion for writing and its power to take me away to a world where there are no responsibilities and magic is an everyday occurrence as crime is in this devilish world. As my hands guide my writing they take me away in such a form that I don’t recall the moment when the ballpoint pen left the surface of the paper and introduced itself to my tanned skin. Smooth hands, a product of daily moisturizer creams, have attempted to play most sports known to man and equally failed but once protected my face from an ugly encounter with the floor of a hot basketball court while trying to steal the ball. Hands which have had their fair share of healing crash wounds whether it was a slip off a rock in a river on vacation resulting in such a scratch that little me thought death was just a couple of drops of blood away or a missed step down the stairs of freshman year on my way to last block or a simple broken heart, these hands have been there to wipe away the tears and to clap at every achievement and overcoming. They were the ones that along with my arms hugged and held family members after years of separation and longing. They were the ones to guide me through my first driving lessons and have, till this day kept me safe on a road where people spend more time texting than actually driving. These are the hands that I will hopefully take to my grave and until then they will continue to define me and the things I’ve been through.