Looking at My Hands
By Uliyaah
I see my hands and I think of my sisters. My hands that pointed accusingly when my favorite shirt went missing. The same hands that held them when they cried. The same hands that grabbed theirs when I had no one else.
I see my hands and I see my brothers. The hands that pointed at me teasingly for making a mistake. The same hands that steadied the bike as I tried to peddle. The same hands that picked me up when I fell from it.
I see my hands. Soft and small, in the grasp of my parents. Their hands that are filled with the experience of hard work and little breaks. The same hands that flew across the world, with only each other’s to hold, to find a better life, for them and the hands that they would create.