I want you
to picture this.
A black and white picture of two hands holding each other. The contrast is turned up high. One hand is bigger than the other, more masculine, creased with more lines. It belongs to a man of about 50. However, it is not the hand of a hard laborer. It is though the hand of a man who has worked and seen a lot in his life. There are slight bumps, shadows of callouses long ago received. The hands, though square and a bit stout have smooth, soft skin. They are hands that have been weakened by an illness, hands of an indoor worker who washes frequently and needs to keep good hygiene for his job. Even though they look strong, like they could grip something firmly, there is also an element of fragility about them.
The other hand is smaller, more slender, and delicate. It is a surprising hand though. It looks small, but it is a hand that would reach out to grab yours right as you were about to fall. It would hold tight, and it wouldn't let you go. It would save your life, if only you would let it. The fingers are narrow, the nails are longer, the creases are fewer. The cuticles are pretty well maintained, the nails come just above the fingertips and look strong, even pretty.
The immediate focus of the photograph is on the contrast between the appearances of each hand, their different ages and lines and how the one that looks weaker seems to have hidden strength while the one that looks stronger looks like it might break unexpectedly. However, as you continue to view the picture, it strikes you not only different the hands are, but also that they are still holding on to one another.
And this is the only frame you get of the relationship. And outside of this tiny black and white square, so much more could be going on. Even though you only see the hands, somehow you know. You know that just outside the frame, these hands join two people who are simultaneously in agony while showing compassion. You know that even though the hands are together in this frame, the rest of the world is likely crumbling around this pair. Sometimes the grip falters, threatens to break, sweat threatening to loose the delicate fingers from the hand that appears sturdier.
You know, you know that these hands belong to people who are simultaneously keeping it together-their relationships, their hearts, their lives, while also falling apart. They are leaning on each other and running away from each other. They are confiding in one another, they are hiding from one another. They are sharing secrets, they are creating them. They are keeping them. They are manipulating them. They are bearing their sorrows together, they are traveling through life utterly alone. They are crying, they are laughing. They are smiling, they are frowning. They are being put back together, they are breaking down. They are searching for help, they have found it. They don't know if they will ever get better, this is all the strength they would ever need.
And now.
Now I want you to feel.
A heart that has beaten itself raw, an open blister, leaking, susceptible to painful touch.
I want you to sense,
I want you to sense a topic that is painful to discuss. A tv kept on to keep the dark place's of one's mind distracted. A fear of sitting down to write. Suppression and repression in an attempt to not deal with overwhelming emotions. An attempt to run but also to scream and express and heal and tackle and understand. Hot, flowing, coursing emotion, pounding like blood that threatens to spill out, or exhaust its owner in the process, take her out, knock her down, break her heart, and force her, trembling, to reaffirm the grip on that deceptively stronger looking hand.
