Our hands tell a story, an x-ray to the life we live through the masks we wear. My mama, her hands are a hammer, a tool to conquer any task. Her hands are up early on a Saturday morning chopping wood and mowing the lawn. Her non-nail polished tips, busying herself 24/7, the hard work helping heal her. The cracks and calluses covertly cover the weak and weary soul underneath. She has the paws of a mama bear, protecting the cub.

My hands are ornaments, useful to project an image I want the world to see. My hands are like armor, pretending to be perfect so no one can penetrate my exterior. My calluses are like a map, showing the motions of hitting a ball, lifting a weight, or swiftly scribbling notes in class. My hands are the gentrification of a generation, supple and soft, while her hands are worn like a worker, no contrast in the content of our character, differences in the duties that dented our hands.