Hands

I used to be good at the little things. I had tiny hands, nine-year-old hands that were strong enough for all sorts of things, and I'd fix all the things that Mama's eyes weren't good enough for, her hands weren't small enough for. I was even stronger, some of the time. I could lift her up and twirl her around, after I got tall enough. I could even grab my father around the knees and lift him.

I'm not nine anymore, and I missed that today, when I finally found the screwdriver that could fix my glasses. It took a few tries to get the screw lined up right, and I had to squeeze very carefully to get the holes in place. I had to take off my emergency backup glasses and look at the screw ever-so-carefully to make sure it was OK to start moving the screwdriver.

I still have strong, capable, dexterous hands. But I'm not nine.

Hands

Home, minus uterus

Enough

You might have succeeded in changing me / I might have been turned around