Sylver Boyer
My great-grandmother’s hands were soft. Not the supple full softness of youth, but the softness that comes from ninety years of hand creams and nightly beauty routines. Even her fingertips were wrinkled by the time I was old enough to know I should imprint everything about her into my memory before she left. Her hands were covered in age spots and thick blue veins, to the point one might have trouble seeing her actual skin tone. The skin looked like tissue paper, so easy to rip, so delicate, and losing opacity rapidly with each year I knew her. When pinched it would stay in place for so long before slowly returning to normal. The ability for it to snap right back to normal was lost decades ago. She always kept her long fingernails perfectly filed even though they were thoroughly yellowed with age. She used to click them together when she was bored. It drove the rest of my family crazy, but I loved the sound. She’d run her hands gently through my hair as my head hovered over her lap, almost afraid the full weight of my skull would crush her fragile legs, but desperate to never pull my hair out of her grip. No matter how much my neck hurt.
My grandmother’s hands were scratchy. She had a nasty habit of chewing off her cuticles, so bits of hardened scabbed-over skin always hung on to her fingertips. If she tried to run them through my hair, it would catch, and I’d feel her wince as slices pulled off. Age spots were starting to appear here and there, along with a few small cherry red beauty marks, something that all the women in my family get as they age. Her skin was starting to become fragile, but they were still plump and filled in, and the wrinkles hadn’t started to appear yet. Her hands were strong, even after years of arthritis sapping away her grip strength, she still gave the best back massages. Her hands were so clumsy. She had lost the majority of feeling in her fingertips. She had sewn more things than I care to count into her own flesh because she couldn’t feel the needle or thread as she attached herself to her work. Even though she was always injuring herself in the process, her hands never stopped creating. Until they stopped for good. My mother’s hands are elegant. Her long thin fingers are soft and well cared for with lotions and potions and warm soft wax treatments. Her nails are almost always perfectly filed into beautiful ovals. There are no age spots, and there’s only one small scar on her index finger from trying to cut frozen burger patties apart when I was just a baby. The ring she’s worn since she met my father in high school has left the skin underneath it polished completely smooth and shiny. Small, almost microscopic dots left over from the metals surface can be seen if you look closely enough. My mother’s hands are as pale as milk, but here and there are small freckles. Her nails are thinner than her grandmother’s were, so even though she tries to keep them long they occasionally break closer to the base.
My mother’s hands may be soft, and her nails may look nice, but don’t mistake that for a lack of hard work. She’s worked the same blue-collar factory jobs as her mother. She keeps a clean house, she cooks her family’s favorite meals, and she sews her daughter’s favorite sweaters back together. She works so hard for the people she loves, and her hands work even harder for her because of that. My hands are rough. I can’t stand the feeling of lotion, so I likely use it much less than I should. I dry the skin out constantly with my work in ceramics. Clay is an unforgiving friend to skin. My hands are clumsy, I have scars littered across them from catching falling knives the wrong way while doing dishes. I have burns from cooking and baking because I never seem to learn that the stove makes things hot, and I shouldn’t touch them. I’ve stabbed my fingertips far too often with an embroidery needle. I have a callous on my index finger from where the yarn runs over it as I crochet. My hands are gentle to play with my girlfriend’s hair, and when I’m bored, I click my nails together. My hands are so very clumsy and I’ll aways gnaw off a hangnail, but I’m always creating some sort of art, even if it’s to my detriment. My nails are always nicely filed, and my pale skin dotted with freckles. A ring from my girlfriend has permanently smoothed the now shiny skin underneath it, and small dots can be seen if you look close enough.
Sylver Boyer is a senior psychology major, graduating this spring in May. She grew up in Hamburg, a small town in Pennsylvania that’s just about thirty minutes away from everything. She’s hoping to be moving forward next fall to get a master’s degree in clinical mental health counseling.