The back of my left hand, resting against my left leg’s gray denim pants

I don’t think about the back of my hand. It’s just always there, holding everything together, usually out of sight if I’m cupping something or counting or doing some other task. Even when I’m actually looking at it, I’m looking through it instead, my attention on whatever I’m writing, keeping the head of the pen or pencil on the paper in front of me. No rings, no tattoos, no fingerprints, just bones and veins, nails and skin and melanin, always behind everything I grip or let slip.

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