How many years have your hands held?
How many years have they lost?
Sometimes I ask myself the same thing, standing over the kitchen sink in the dark, drinking tap water. What has your body become? I call mine home, finally. These arms, these legs – this chest, still breathing. Some nights I stand there for a long time, barely moving, enjoying the silence.
My hands haven’t lost anything, I think.
My hands have only made room.