My hands after pulling the dead vegetables from the garden.

I’d always wanted elegant, soft, lady-like hands, whatever that means. I’d wanted hands like my childhood friend Donna — she had long, tapering fingers and oblong, thin nails. Soft, soft skin. Instead, genetics dealt me these stubby fingers, and dry, crackled skin, while an childhood obsessive oral fixation implanted a near-unbreakable nail and cuticle biting habit. When I was about sixteen or so, a friend of mine tattooed a lightning bolt on my left middle finger with a sewing needle and India ink. The end result, after days of swelling, was less a rock-and-roll bolt and more a shaky outline of the state of New Jersey. There it is, though, etched permanently on my finger.

I wouldn’t say I’ve grown to love my hands, but I don’t think about them much anymore, except to notice sometimes how wrangled they are from paint, or work, or gardening.