All I Know About Love I've Learned From My Hands

By:Jessica Anastasia

Iwas around thirteen years old when I put my hand over a burning flame. A candle, some version of a pumpkin scent I bought from Bath & Body Works. I had no need to buy my own candle at thirteen. I wasn’t even that into candles yet, and if I was, my mom had plenty I could choose from at home. Despite this, I was at the mall with my friends and a candle was something girls my age would buy— a candle and a handful of underwear from Pink’s 7 for 27 sale. At thirteen, I was pretty similar to girls my age. I liked shopping, I had crushes, I watched teen drama shows like Gossip Girl or Pretty Little Liars, and I was deeply insecure. From the top of my head to the tips of my toes, there was not an inch of my skin that I felt comfortable residing in, let alone something I liked. My hands were included. My hands, like the rest of my body, are very thin, bony even. They appear too big for my arms, like gloves that don’t fit or like a misfit doll put on the wrong assembly line at the factory. My fingernails are short, and despite the slenderness of my fingers, my nail beds are wide with a circular shape to top them off. My ring fingers, in contrast, are squared. They have always been my favorite finger because of this. The squareness compliments the slenderness in a way that feels more beautiful, more feminine—something like the other girls. Recently, I told my nail tech I need to stop using Pinterest as a way to choose my nail shape, because my hands dont look like the photos. To this she replied, “Well those photos are pretty hands, model hands.” I laughed, knowing she meant no harm and also finding comedy in the widely held conviction that social media creates expectations for our bodies, even down to our goddamn fingers. When I put my hand over the $11 purple and orange flame at thirteen, it wasn’t because of my insecurities; it was because of my curiosity. How bad can it really hurt? What is the worst that could happen? I sat up in my bed, allowing my zebra striped comforter to fall from my chest to my lap, and rolled up the right sleeve of my whimsical giraffe pjs. I reached toward the flame with caution, allowing my open palm to hover about four inches over the round top of the large glass candle…heat. It felt nice, warmth in the center of my hand. It reminded me of the book The Kissing Hand, one of my childhood favorites. A story of a mother racoon who sends her cub to school with her kiss in palm. A reminder that he is never without her love and protection, no matter the brings me to tears. I inched closer and closer to the flame. Warmer, then hot, hotter, and then burning as my palm met the glass rim. I paused for a moment with my eyes squinted shut before pulling away. I used my unburnt hand to catch and cradle the one I scorched, squeezing it like a tight hug before checking to see if there was serious damage. There wasn’t. How beautiful? That our bodies react out of instinct to keep us from pain, to keep us from burning. How beautiful the way it comforts itself, one hand embracing another before the analytical mind takes over to survey for defacement. Like a mother who embraces her fallen child with a sigh of relief at their wholeness before holding their face to ask, “Where are you hurt?”

My hands loved me before I learned to love myself at thirteen years old—figuring out the pains of the world one flame at a time.