Before I understood the weight of memory and the grace of healing, I had hands that reached, held, and learned. Now, when I look at my hands, I don’t recognize them. Not because they’ve changed, but because they’ve held so many lives—mine, my children’s, my grandchildren’s, my ailing Papa’s and Mama’s before they died, my brother’s, dear friend June’s, and adapted Daddy’s Sam’s before they too succumbed to illness. Through it all, my hands never once asked for rest.

They started as tiny, curious fists, clenched against the unfamiliar air of a newborn world. Soft, unlined, and eager, I can easily picture my baby’s hands reaching out to Mama’s finger, wrapping around it with blind trust, already speaking the wordless language of love, and resting on her breast as I suckle her nourishing milk, another act of unconditional love she bestowed upon me.

In my childhood, my hands were like explorers. They kneaded dough alongside Mama, scooped up pinecones in the forest, picked snowdrops peeking through the winter snow, and traced shapes on fogged windows. Those same hands practiced calligraphy at school for hours, painstakingly drawing slanted lines, circles, and semicircles before writing the actual letters.

In first grade, they opened the Alphabet book so I could recognize the 33 letters of the Russian alphabet: ten vowels, twenty-one consonants, and the two signs: Ъ, tverdiy znak—hard sign, and Ь, myagkiy znak—soft sign. My curious fingers flipped through the pages as I began to read and used counting sticks to explore numbers.

As I grew, my hands supported my weight while climbing the walnut trees that thrived abundantly in Ukraine. They rested on the branches as I talked to my best friend, Alyssa. They became pliable and cooperative when I used a pocketknife to crack open a nut, allowing me to savor the flesh of a young fruit. The unforgettable, milky taste still lingers.

They rested beneath my cheek in sunflower fields, holding a spikelet as I dreamed of becoming a doctor and gazed at the golden blooms nodding in approval.

They also hid secrets in cupped palms, cradled my chin while I dreamed, and built castles from dirt and imagination. They cultivated the soil for a garden in the backyard. I remember the day we dug holes for cherry, apple, and pear trees. Decades later, I hope someone enjoys the fruit they bear.

My hands learned to sew, knit, crochet, and needlepoint alongside Mama’s skilled fingers. Her voice still echoes: “Make those stitches straight.” Just as Papa taught me to iron delicate garments, his patience was stitched into every pressed fold.

They stirred up mischief during card games with my siblings. As a sore loser, I would throw down my cards, wailing that they had cheated. Mama and Papa usually intervened, but being the youngest in the family, I often escaped punishment. Looking back, I regret the way I manipulated them to avoid chores.

When my siblings left, one for work and the other for the Navy, I matured. I took on their responsibilities and worked to make my parents proud. My hands baked desserts that delighted them. Over time, baking became my passion, and decorating cakes with my own hands turned it into an art form.

My hands learned to soothe early. At fourteen, when Papa was ill, they stretched a five-ruble allowance, bought food, fed the cats, and paid for student train rides. Every Saturday, they took me to Odessa to visit him. They wiped his forehead, held his trembling hands, and bathed his face. Back then, I didn’t know those gestures were sacred, only that they mattered.

A year later, in his hospital room, I wiped the yellow foam from his lips, stroked his face, and whispered words of love. I held his unconscious hand and promised never to forget him. I vowed to carry on his legacy of kindness.

At twenty-one, my hands welcomed motherhood. Holding my newborn daughter, I felt a love that was fierce and immediate. In that sterile hospital room, I promised to protect her from the antisemitism I had endured. Two years later, my mother’s arms enveloped her as we sat on a train to Moscow for our exit visas.

Nine years later, they held my newborn son in Brooklyn, the first American in our family. Cradling him, I felt the sacred thread of lineage and an infinite connection, as if the cord had never been severed.

My hands grew stronger through motherhood. They packed lunches, held shoulders, wrote difficult letters, and folded baby clothes too small to wear again. My hands experienced joy and sorrow in equal measure.

And still, they reached.

At thirty-three, my hands became something more. During a session with a healer, I sensed a presence. “Who are you?” I asked.

“It is I, Papa,” came the voice.

Eighteen years after his death, I heard his unmistakably familiar baritone and felt him.

He said, “Your son is very ill.”

That day, something awakened within me. My fingers moved with a purpose not my own, hovering above my son as they balanced unseen forces and transferred universal energy. This continued for months until, one day, the urge stopped. During meditation, Papa returned.

“Your son is healed now. Good job. You carry my strength.”

Later, Roman, the extra sense echoed the words exactly. I wept. From that moment on, my hands were no longer just mine. They became bridges, instruments. Through them, I transformed into a channel, a vessel for the highest good.

In Florida, I became a Reiki master. I believed in the power of touch. In each session, warmth flowed through me. I felt energy like light passing through stained glass. I observed others exhale, release, and relax. The healing was mutual. It always is.

My hands are no longer smooth. Wrinkles etch my knuckles, and my nails break more easily. Yet, they still serve as the maps of my life. They have held the dying, comforted the grieving, and cradled the laughing. They have borne more than their weight. They have carried meaning.

When I rest them over someone’s heart, I remember. They are not perfect, but they are present. Not ornamental, but essential.

These are my hands, the hands that love built.

These are the hands that remember Papa’s final breath.

These are hands that passed tenderness from one generation to the next.

These are hands that never stopped showing up.