Hands

It was not until today that I think about other people's hands.

How some hands are smooth, how some hands are rough.
How some hands are small, how some hands drown me.
And how each shake is unique; grips that show what's inside the heart.

Every once in a while I would look up and see a smile, and I could tell a lot of those hands were actually genuine. The sincere hands squeeze gently. It's their way of saying, "Congratulations!" To those hands, of course, I smiled back. Though there were big men with presumably calloused hands, all seemed soft to me thanks to the smiles.

The whole congregation only had one door to exit. Assuming none of them wants to, they were obligated to stand in line to shake hands with the pastor. After the pastor comes his helper… and seven other new brothers and sisters in Christ of mine. I was the last of the lot and one had to get to me before one leaves the building. I felt sorry for a lot of them. I know they have other things to do, places to go, trains to catch (the church was next to a railway station), but they were willing to sacrifice a few minutes to shake my hand and, more often than not, mutter ’congratulations’.

Of course there were obviously satiated hands that would rather be anywhere else in the world but there. Those hands still had to shake mine; only sometimes our hands barely touch. It was like, I don’t know, more of a tap than a shake. The thumb did not even bother bending. To my surprise, I still smile to those hands. Of course I did not really plan to, but I had been smiling for more or less fifteen minutes, so why not go on until the church is emptied? I had no time to relax my facial muscles anyway. Those hands were forced to meet mine just like I was forced, by myself, to smile. After everything was over and I got in the car, though, I realized I should be happy for whatever reason all the time I was there. It was my day, my moment, of renouncing my faith in Christ.

Some hands were bored. Mine, too, most definitely. I reckon the line of nine or so people was too long for them. But me, I've never shaken so many hands in a day. Get this, I had to shake every person's hand in a church as big as Gym 2. I had to stand for about twenty minutes on a pair of high heels, faking a few smiles. I was happy, but nonetheless tired! I had to wake up at 5 in the morning that Sunday.

Oh, those hands. Eager, weary, mondaine, merry.
I shook them all.

At the end of the day, I reflected on how my tiny hands must, at one point, have felt that way. I bet there was a time when I could not care less about shaking people's hands. Shaking hands is a symbol of appreciation, thanks, and often respect. I should be thankful; I should be pleased, that at someone (well, more than one) in this world would care to touch my hands.

I'd rather them hold my hands, though. But not just anyone, I want a certain someone to hold my hand.

Should I be doing this, assuming things? I am somewhat sensitive, I read people from their actions... and I could be wrong, of course. So until I receive my degree in Hand Psychology (is there such a thing?), I shall never judge a person from his or her hand shake ever again.

I told Mr. Eric about this the next day. He said I should care more about the millions and billions of germs and bacteria which got transferred to and fro my hands that day.

Nasty. Someone, anti bacterial wipes, please!