Hand on my heart

I wrote this years ago and I still love it.
I use my hands to rub sleep from my eyes, to throw back the duvet and push myself off the bed. I use my hands to grasp the toilet paper, brush my teeth, turn on the taps, grab the soap. I use my hands to lather up my hair, to rub my body dry with a towel. With my hands I fasten my bra, pull a t-shirt over my head and apply lipstick. I use my hands to cup the head of my dog and kiss him. To fill the kettle. I wrap my hands around a warm mug of tea, and use them to bring its sweetness to my lips. I use my hands to open the door, to scatter seeds for the birds, pick a flower, and feel the temperature of the water. I rub my hands together to keep them warm, rub them on my jeans to clean them, rub them over velvet to feel its smoothness, and rub lotion on my face. With my hands I steer my car to work, type an email to a friend, order a book from Amazon. I use my hands to eat that delicious burger, rest my chin upon while I think, point out something to a colleague. I raise my hands to greet a friend in a crowded restaurant, or wave goodbye at the airport. With my hands I carry my shopping, and pack it away. I ruffle my dog’s coat, and can keep someone distant or bring them close. Hold a lover, cuddle a child. Wipe a tear. Blow my nose. I remember, as a child, my mom held my hand when we crossed the road and my dad scooped me up with his when I was scared. With my hands I push the child forward on the bike, on the swing, into a new school. I tie their shoelaces, hold their ice cream, wipe their mouth. I use my hands to change channels, to grasp a handful of popcorn, to page through a magazine. My hands open jars, packets, books, drawers, cupboards and just as easily close them. I use my hands to hold on tight during a rollercoaster ride, and to clap with delight during a performance. I can soothe a hurt with my hands, give a gift, pay for a chocolate, strum a guitar. I reach out my hands to gladly accept a present, a letter, a plate of food, a drink. I use my hand to stifle a yawn, to hide a smirk, to pluck my eyebrows. With my hands I write you a note, draw a picture, sign my dissatisfaction. I put my hands over my heart when there is bad news, but on my head when I don’t know what to do. I place my hands firmly on the ground to do a cartwheel, on my hips to stress a point. With my hands I gently touch your face to say I love you, pull you to your feet when you’re feeling down. With my hands I tell the story.