My hands

Today as I made notes on my iPhone I looked down at my hands and made a startling discovery, I don't have little girl’s hands anymore. I must tell you that I might have noticed this earlier on but I dismissed it as cold hands that needed a little bit of my luxurious moisturizer. My hands tell my life stories; they have signs of work done with them, on them around them. They represent blessings upon blessings received and placed on them by God’s amazing grace. My hands are short like my dad’s hands, I have not always liked them for being so thick and stumpy I wished for long fingers like my mother's. I remember looking at my little girl hands wishing they weren't so small, I wanted beautiful lean smooth hands with a pretty diamond ring and red nails just like she had. Before I knew it I had the hands I have now, I don't know when it happened but today my hands belong to a woman, not like my mother neither are they of that little girl anymore. I guess it’s not just my hands that have changed, my whole physical body attesting to the journeys I have walked through in this world. Today I miss that little girl, the gullible; loud; sweet curiosity with a sense of vulnerability, the innocence…

I miss picking out a Xmas dress. The red polka dress  and glossy, bright red patent leather shoes that I could easily see my reflection in. I miss being able to eat as much sugary things as I could without feeling sick and most certainly without the forbidden weight gain. Licking or scraping the cream off the lemon cream buiscuits before I actually started chewing them and sometimes not even chew on them at all and move on to the next one. Toffie apples once in a blue moon, cream doughnuts from Spar, the smell of freshly baked queen cakes at my home, nobody make them like they used to, soft  almost too delicately fluffy.  I miss swinging on the swing all day long till I felt like my legs were wobbly and unstable from hanging suspended in the air for far too long because my feet could not reach the ground. I miss being able to hold all of my body weight on one grip. I miss picking these pink flowers at our back garden and rubbing them against my skin so I could pretend I was wearing perfume. I miss believing that there was Father Xmas, I miss thinking that crunching on an ice cream cone was the best thing in the whole wide world. I miss running to my dad when he came home from varsity once a quarter or on long breaks and feeling his warmth and strong arms as he lifted me swinging me in the air as though I was weighless and looked at me with so much love and adoration making me feel like I was the only child in the world. Now I try to look and love each one of my children as though they were the only child in the world because I know how special that was even though I was not the only child he loved that much. I miss thinking that my mom’s hugs and kisses  could really cure anything, a bruising on my forehead; the itch on my legs from lying on the grass too long; pins and needles; a broken no WAIT… a shattered heart, infact I believe she still can heal everything, uzifozonke wami, wrapping me up so warm and the calmness that her body scent brought me, still brings me to this day…

I miss the smell of bathtime dettol and bubblegum bath soap. I miss not knowing what it feels like to care. I miss not knowing what it felt like to miss somebody, and not knowing how to protect myself from people, not knowing of having to shield myself from their conniving ways and just to be, to trust without knowing that you are being trusting. To live each moment at that moment and knowing that tomorrow WILL COME. When I WAS NOT SCARED TO DIE. When I didn't know a cell phone and could easily live without it. When I hadn’t a clue that not everyone in the world is kind and not everybody loves me. When I assumed the good and best in people, when the end did not justify the means. What does that even mean anyway? And if someone promised they delivered.

I miss sticking my tongue out at other children from my well fenced home while they were having more fun than me because I was not allowed to play house with hot boy next door or play a game on the road called butterscotch, resorting to making strange noises all around the yard just so I could catch their attention and see that  I had the best Barbie in the neighbourhood. Bear in mind though thatI would have given up my dolls and lorries in a heartbeat for a chance to play butterscotch namagenda with them.

 I miss being connected to myself enough to cry when I feel that hurt. I miss the calmness it brought me to cry period. When I did not need to be  calculated and manipulative but I could say a  simple "please"  and it would do. The times when it came so easy and natural to be conscious of saying thank you; I love you. My friends can attest that I still say I love you to them, though its now frowned upon to say out your love to your friends.

What happened to my  sense of wonder, I miss my softness, why does being a strong woman mean you have to be so hard? When I didn't have to be accountable. I miss my Uncle Luke and his “Craven A” breath; I almost want to puke when I smell a smoker’s breath. I loath smokers  with a passion now; I actually even miss Granddad's old scent my fourth nanny’s temper. I had about 8 in total, mom used to fire them very quickly.

I miss when I had fearless confidence; taking risks, when guilt and greed weren't emotions that existed within me. When the only fear I knew was that of the dark. When fun was  a day outing in town, the smell of chips at Captain Dorego or was it Mississipi Fish and Chips, lunch with Mom at Café Bavaria then tipy toe around the splashing water works near the PMB city hall, chasing pigeons or allowing them to come close enough for me to feed them with my left over bread roll. When I played house with my sister instead of worried about paying for one or owning more than one. Before insecurity and self awareness, before doubt and heart piercing betrayal, before I knew anything about my body and I used it as a means to live in and not out of. I miss when love was unconditional, and security meant Ma and Baba. When I didn't know how to tell time and just trusted there was always enough of it.

I am proud of my hands I love them, I like that they still look like my Dad's, that they are strong and firm that they have been so successful in so many areas. I just wish that they could have stayed that innocent and young, a little bit longer.