My family is always busy. My Papa’s hands, rough and cracked. Always active. But my hands-- are smooth, like a newborn's cheek. Ripped fingers, and sometimes chalky palms. A ring on almost every finger. Grandmas hands, type, type, type all day, flimsy, and wrinkly. Garden thumb. Kiki’s hands are tense from the yelling of her kids. Though, they’re soft. Her hands have a smell of a fresh cup of coffee, thrilling my nose. My soon to be step dad, hands soft. Fingernails short as he can get them, smell of hospital blankets. Not my favorite scent. Yet, sometimes smell like after a smoldering, smoky fire on its last breath. The hands of the wild Brecken and Crew-- small, smooth like ancient river stones. Marker stains, and dirt burrowed under their fingernails. My mother’s hands, intensely dry, cracked as well. Always busy, yet freshly painted fingertips. Papercuts from scrapbooking paper. Hands cold as a frozen lake in the winter. Her hands describe her-- organized, swamped everyday, and creative.