My father's hands are rough with ridges, deep as the valleys bridging the rolling green mountains he now calls home. Each wrinkle is a different story, that he has told as he folds the pages of books, and tucks me into bed. Unlike my dad, my hands are not yet etched with veins and wrinkles that will reflect the paths I will follow, or the stories I will live. 

Sometimes, late in the night, when the world is quiet, and the dark covers me like a blanket, I feel my heart beating in my hands. From my thumb to the tips of my fingers, it is the only thing to remind me that I am alive.

Even now as I write this, my hands are the things that are bringing my thoughts to life. Every thing we have ever touched, held, or been, is stored within our hands. They are extensions of ourself, and our way to experience the world.

If they reflect our past and present, why is it so hard to believe that through them we can see our futures?