Old Hands

When I was born, I only made perfect little lines. I couldn't walk then. As I began to take my first steps, encouraging hands held me up on either side. Those hands erased my little lines. They taught me something new. With each step, I learned to draw with courage. Each mistake was celebrated. My hands were filthy and my small line multiplied into dozens of messy, crossing lines. The imperfect, bold lines gradually became figures that mourned, that danced, and that loved. When this happened, I stood on my own for the first time. Aware that my legs might buckle, those hands remained, ready to catch me should I fall.

Those hands are no longer behind me. I stand on my own. They are helping other infants with their first steps. I will never forget my imperfect, messy lines, but I long to create them. I am asked to make perfect lines again. My legs begin to shake. No one will catch me now. I will help myself up, remembering the lessons from the old hands, hoping to this day that they are proud.