Fascinated by Your Hands

 

I watch, transfixed, as you unpack your therapy notebook with the care and precision of a surgeon.

 

It’s the same story every week: first you gather up all the papers you’ve been working on–loose, stapled and paper-clipped–then you tap them into synchrony and place them, in order of importance, in a neat pile on the corner of our shared desk. Then you pick up your pen, and I pick up mine, and it’s down to business.

 

It’s only after ten weeks of working together that I realize why I’ve been so fascinated by this little ritual: you have my grandmother’s hands.