Crooked Pinkies
I know you by the state of your hands
BY MARIE RONNANDER
I used to hold my mother's hands in church like a sacred treasure. I would twist her gold ruby ring and run my chubby fingers across her smooth, creased palms. I thought there was nothing more loving than the shape of her hands holding my own in pensive prayer.
Last year, I looked down at my folded hands and was startled to find they had grown into the shape of my mother’s. The writer's callus on my left index finger and my crooked pinkies define my family heritage. At that moment, there was a sense of mourning at the maturation I had faced without her by my side. I didn’t pray; I didn’t play piano, and yet I was granted the grace of my mother's hands.
Throughout my life, I’ve wanted my work to define me. Each summer was a hazy long haul spent in strawberry fields with the sun scorching my back. Hours of hoeing left their marks in calluses and dirt-encrusted fingernails. I let the labor mold my body, growing proud of the physical representation of my mental strength. My body was capable, and I was a tool for the earth.
My hours alone were spent pouring my emotions onto papers and canvases. I was consistently covered in an aromatic mixture of oil paints and mineral spirits. Charcoal dusted not only my fingertips but occasionally my nose and cheeks. My art spilled onto me as I spilled myself into it. I loved every stain as a part of my soul, a nod to the artist inside me.
Now, there are no calluses, and the only ink that touches my hand form friendly reminders that I need to “study organometallics” or “email so-and-so.” My fingers are ornamented with sparkling rings that are constantly traded for a pair of nitrile gloves. Science doesn’t touch your hands unless it’s giving you a chemical burn. Science sits you in a chair for hours on end to study the process of photosynthesis until your eyes dry up from the harsh, white screen.
Slowly, I’ve watched any mark of my work dissolve from my skin. My hands, once hardened with stories, have turned soft and pale. My nails are clean from my nervous dirt-picking habits, and the only callus left is the one I share with my mother. My writing bump –the accumulation of a revolving door of lucky pens and chewed-up pencils– is the last visible evidence of my lived experience.
My mother works in a museum. Her hours are endless, and the energy she pours into others could quench an entire country. She lives her life with compassion and faith whereas I am defined as the prodigal daughter. Not only have I turned away from religion, but from the very art that washed my pain away. To find my mother’s hands resting so casually in my own lap although the differences in our identities were like ice water. I was called to my paintbrush, a plea for a change.
Our bodies are gifts that we are allowed to shape in any way we want. They are constant reminders of the choices we’ve made and the life handed down to us. My decision to go into science has never been a regret, but it was at the cost of the creative world that I miss dearly. To find my hands, so naked and weak was foreign and heartbreaking. A needed reminder to immerse myself in my passions while chasing my future.
What is more, is that it was a reminder that my mom is never far away. Despite the vast differences in identity, a familial tie holds us together. I don’t play piano; I paint visions. I don’t write grants; I write reaction mechanisms. I don’t pray; I read Bukowski. But like every human, I find myself lonely and tired. When I look down and find my mother's crooked pinkies, I know that there is someone to call me home whenever I am lost.