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55 Hands Sometimes I think I have my mother’s hands. Then I see hers—just slightly knottier, more wrinkled than mine. I put on rubber gloves to do the dishes. Sometimes, I think, my hands are from my father: long fingers Mom wrote in my baby book. The better to play piano, sew, or type. The better for nail-biting, thumb-sucking. Sometimes I think of liabilities: my middle finger stunned in a basketball drill— a chest pass from my best friend. The hand stiffened, too splayed to get through sleeves. My mother washed my hair in the sink—I was twelve, ashamed to let her see me in the bath. Sometimes I think of how my hands can heal. One day I came home from school in tears, the scapegoat of my classmates, refused to go back. I burned my left palm making pizza— the injury an alibi while Mom and Dad got clearance to teach me at home. For weeks, I watched the long blister drain, harden, crack, and peel to a scar—pink and shiny. ...

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