My sister’s small hand anchors mine in the passenger seat as my other guides the wheel. Her long, skinny fingers entangle mine like earbuds left too long in your pocket. When I park my car, she whips the door open and runs inside, faster than I can say, “I love you.”

My father’s hand, rough and long, moves across the frets so delicately and swiftly. His fingertips are hard calluses, like sandpaper, formed from squeezing strings for too long. I can feel the scrape of the sharp skin on my arm as the smell of grease and metal roll off his and cling to mine. I shiver at the touch.

And then my mother, for her hand is only an image of recollection. The memory of her hand comes by lotion and short fingernails that would never grow. Her warm hand would tuck me in and hold back my hair when her lips touched my forehead to say goodnight. And in the morning, lightly on my cheek, her hand a wave of good feelings and luck.