Everyone I know has different hands. My dad’s hands are like a carpenter’s: worn and wrinkled from hard work. Long days on the farm as a child and state championships for basketball make his hands leathery and callused. As for my mother, her hands are a soft, silk blanket used for comforting when all hope is lost. Scattered with rings from past family members and from her marriage make them a trophy case of the successes and memories in life. My brothers hands are small and soft, not to mention lazy.

But, my sister--she has small, steady, lean hands of a surgeon, used for cutting and suturing human flesh. So much control are in the hands, like a robot obeying every command given by the brain. They are her livelihood and her future. As for my hands, they are big but toned, long but careful. I have fine control over my hands: they do exactly what I want. They sketch a perfect line on my page, write words with utmost precision, and never shake with worry. The scars on my fingers are reminders of my failures and mistakes, telling me to be more careful next time. The hands that are mine, blood pulsing through them, bringing life.