“Her hands are beautiful. An amazing piece of art. If I could write a book about her hands, I would. But no one would read it. You may have heard it said that a picture is worth a thousand words. But does it go vice-versa? Will a thousand words repaint the picture? I do not know if it can ever be true, but if it is I know that it cannot be just any thousand words. They must be perfect. And without those perfect arrangement of words, the picture is not painted.
I am an artist. But I am not an artist with words. And I am not an artist of reality. I can paint what is beautiful in my mind. But I cannot replicate the beauty of someone else. I cannot replicate what blows my mind.
And if you have not seen those hands, then how can you realize their beauty?
They called her Tubby-tub-tub. Fat little fingers, pale like her American sun. They never darkened, never tanned in her new home. Once, twice, three times, again and again she gave them a chance. Many times she moved. Many times, they grew and slimmed, grew and slimmed, till they became as they are. Long and slender. And pale as the LED that lights her world.
Clean. Dirty. Clean in their dirtiness. Dirty in their cleanliness. Pale like the soap of their scent, dark from the dust she cannot shake. Dust of her home. Karimojong dust. Dust that leaps from the untamed ground, hungry for the sweat on her skin, that swirls about her in a dust devil, the torment of the plains. Dust from the land that seeps into her, affecting her very soul, becoming one with her spirit. And though she washes, it will not leave. It has become hers.
The fingers move like the rain. Quickly, quickly, tiny pin pricks, then faster and harder, devouring the pages she turns, the pen she holds, the keys of the laptop she click-clicks away. clickety-clack clickety-clack. Such a sound cannot suit those hands. Poised over the keyboard like a dancer, first waiting for the music to start their song and then gracefully playing out the words in the notes.
Graceful. They are graceful. Even in their clickety-clacking dustiness, there is nothing that could undermine the elegant gracefulness of those hands. Those beautiful hands. Even with the correct thousand words, who could replicate such beauty?”
– Maria Tricarico
She is dancer
swaying, moving BRIGHT
burning, energy flowing always through her
Oh, child, you will never slow down or stop or focus
you are a sparkler, flying
voice like raw honey and ice
clear, pure, rippling through hallways and doors
smile that cuts straight to the heart and curls up there
dimples wrapping around the strings and playing your mind like you didn’t think it could
inspiration. and then eyes burn into you completely,
icy warm blue, this volcano child stares out at the world below
tangly bracken of hair.
don’t mind me
I just want to be tangled forever in your hair
to lie, silently caressed by your thoughts and words
where i can hear them all
and not miss things because I’m too far away.
where i can see your flying green eyes fall into mine when we understand
you watch me paint, i watch you read
never a judging word or glance
because you know me all the way down to the bone and through the other side
skin and blood connect us tightly
even while we’re forever away and will never be the same because of it
while we meet people the other will never meet.
I’m tired of this!
not hearing you, not seeing you
I think of you
when I don’t understand
when no one laughs
when I see something beautiful
when i see someone with green eyes
when my laugh sounds like yours
and when i breathe.