Hands – Part 1

Hands. Soft as the tip of a feather. Strong as the mighty wing, taking leave from earth and sand. Creating waves that destroy lands never really meant for them.

Hands, unlike wings, are built to lift others up, or hold them down. Wings, though strong, cannot grasp another wing. As a bird, being free, is taking that first flight. As a human, being free, is reaching out, letting someone know it will be all right.

We wear faces that mask our feelings. Feelings that we cannot explain in a simple sentence. Compound feelings that expand decades. Generations of guilt and of suffering. We wear faces so that you do not pity what you do not understand; so that we do not have to expose our pain as if game caught by the lioness.

Smile now, cry later. There will always be the haters. Masquerade, play dress up until you are old and grey. You made it out, little one, but the outlook is about the same. Masking tape, it’s an old school kind of make – shift, classics always keep the party going late. I can’t promise everything will be OK, only that your story is still being made.

Telling tales at Tiny’s. Trudging through turf too tough por la lugar el trabajo. Too much a burden for our parents. Too much their burden, too. Together at Tiny’s, sharing the weight, we stand up right, because there is strength in our community. No matter how tiny we may be individually, together, we stand tall. In the land of the free and the home of the brave, we speak our truths. For weren’t our forefathers begot by forefathers, begot by forefathers before them? Here before these countries even rose.

Pawns in someone else’s game. Hoping to be here long enough for someone to remember our name. Wishing someone cared where our head got laid. Waiting for an answer to a prayer long ago made.