Hands

Hands were the subject of many discussions in our household. My mother used to trace the head and heart lines on my left hand and say, "Don't get too violent. You could kill someone." If those two lines connected, she warned, a person would be branded as aggressive, short-tempered, or mentally slow. It was spoken of by Thai ancestors, but I dismissed the story as pure folklore.

This was never an issue for me. My palm lines snake past each other, with only a trickle connecting them. It was, though, for my brother. His palm lines collided and diverged angrily across his palm. Whether it be a coincidence or not, my brother grew older with a fierce temper and smoldering grudges. I grew feebly, contracting illness constantly and succumbing under a weak will. Years later, however, our roles switched and I was an angry, explosive preteen with no filter on my mouth. I still constantly have fits of rage, but I've begun to learn how to stifle them temporarily.

As I grew, so did my hands. Others' hands were developing calluses from rough sports or strenuous activities while mine remained smooth and pale. Friends would hold my hands and comment on their texture. The same couldn't be said about my fingers. They were (and still are) war-worn after a lifetime of nail-biting, paper cuts, and burns. My thumbs carried the worst of the stress.

My mother constantly berates me to stop biting my nails. She says I look mentally insane. I've tried to put an end to it, but it's a bad habit I've yet to kick. I suppose I don't want to embarrass her in public. She imagines the whispers trailing me in the local shopping mart: 'What's wrong with that boy's hands?' 'Do you think he has a problem?'

Perhaps my hands know more than I give them credit for.