Hands

Your hands are as white as alabaster,
covered with rings and bracelets to
hide the scars of past torments.

You say the ring on the little finger of
your right hand is of solid ruby.
A gift passed down through generations
to symbolise maturity. From Mother to
Daughter. It reminds you of home.

Home has its own kind of comfort.
The smell of oven-baked cookies cooked
by Grandma and the cold sea breeze
which you clasped onto.
It reminds you of the time you felt
most protected, you were untouchable.

Your hands are a beacon of history.

The silver bangle on your left hand
was a gift from your departed best friend.
He taught you to dance,
he taught you to flourish,
and he taught you to believe in yourself
and face those who pulled you down.

Your hands are a beacon of history, your history.

The wounds you bear upon them are inexorable,
yet the rings and bracelets used as a cover,
remind you of who you are.
They are yours forever.