secret santa (tapsanta) wrote in unraveled, @ 2016-12-30 22:06:00 |
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"Show me." A moment's hush and Serena's hands recede, replaced by smaller hands, dark under broken nails. Filthy hands, ruddy at the knuckles, slipping into a man's robes, pulling free a carving and a few loose galleons. Quick hands, holding the elephant up to a grey sky, turning it back and forth as a brittle sigh escapes into the freezing air. Hands resting nervously in a dark shop. Hands that slide stolen property over black marble and slide sickles back. Before: Manicured hands, smelling of luxury and almond oil, hands that buy the things they can't make. Money falls out of these hands easily, slipping over buffed, meticulously shaped fingertips in exchange for carved soapstone, hardly looked at. A glistening wedding ring jangles loose galleons in a freshly laundered pocket, all forgotten. Before: Wrinkled hands, lined and old, tanned and peeling, blue in the thumbs where the circulation is bad. Hands that wield a fragile wand unevenly, that dip and bow at the merest provocation. Tools in hot sand, sifting and searching for what the wand detects. They raise a carved elephant to the sun as sand and splinters pour away; they clean with an aching slowness; they smooth a shimmering carpet out and rest reclaimed wares on its hovering surface. Weary hands, counting money and resting on cheap linen robes, waiting for wealthy hands with almond fingers. Before: Rough deck hands, salted and scarred, broken in too many places. Hands that clean and scrub, that swell when it rains. Searching hands, fishing half finished cigarettes from between living quarter bunks and lighting them. Hands that never waste, that stretch everything to breaking. That scrub together for warmth and hesitate before plucking out a soapstone beast hidden in a mattress spring. Gentle hands scraping the wool of an inner pocket and touching tentatively back during a storm. Before: Child-hands, clutching mother's hands, steadying on a gangway as the ocean foams around them. Hands far from home, wiping away tears and clinging to brightly colored silks. Receiving hands, stretching up to catch a toy. Haathi, protector, mount of Indra, protect me on my mount. Young hands, used to heat and earth, now cold and shaking, now wiping away night sweats. Hands that hide an elephant in the springs of a mattress in the bunk above. Hands that go still. Before: Weathered brown hands, cradling stone. It is called soapstone some places, but here it has another name. Palewa. Formed beneath unyielding sun yet so ready to yield to the hands of an artist. Artist-hands tapping out a sinuous rhythm with many others: skilled and apprentice in effortless harmony, shaping memories to travel the earth through countless hands. |