Garden Hands

I used to have beautiful hands. Perfect fingernails, not too long, not too short. A nice pink tone with striking white tips that everyone thought were French, but were natural. Soft skin, with no lines, spots or scars. I could have been a hand model. But that was before gardening.

Now I have Garden Hands.

As of this morning, a nail is chipped from banging it on the edge of the stone water feature. The dirt I gathered while weeding, is stuck so far under my nails I may never get it out. I have sun spots that look like constellations, floating across the back of my hands. The wrinkles only go away for a brief moment after I slather on my cure-all handcream, and then return to taunt me. I have three scratches from the hydrangea, and a nick in my pinky from trying to pull out a stubborn weed, and catching a rock instead.

I used to have perfect hands. But they didn't know the feeling of the early morning earth. They didn't know how basil smelled, rubbed between their fingers. They didn't know the shadows of soil beneath nails and the satisfaction of a weed-free plot of veggies. They hadn't played in the water and dirt since early childhood. They were beautiful hands. But they were lifeless.

Now I have Garden Hands.

And I wouldn't trade them for anything.