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If they were, I'd still play the piano, an instrument I gave up after eleven years of lessons, largely because I could barely reach an octave comfortably. The last composition I learned, The Rhapsody in Blue, took a year to master and memorize, and even then I had difficulty with one especially difficult run in octaves down the piano.
Mine are pedestrian hands, short, thick fingers and knuckles, serviceable but not elegant. The left bears a half-moon scar of broken glass and the right a pinkie permanently curved from a jammed finger thanks to a volleyball.
But they remind me of my mother's hands -- no-nonsense tools for her sewing and gardening. For this resemblance alone, I love my hands because they are the only physical reminders of her in me.
Now if only I could get them to crease and fold more confidently . . . .
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