History In My Hands: The History I Am

Small hands display,

My freckles and spots,

Blotchy and patchy,

And speckled with cuts.

My calloused finger tips, 

Tell a story of their own,

Of time spent in music and practise,

In long hours now gone,

Ingrained in the lines,

My hands can reflect,

All the things I have bested,

Of which otherwise,

I would likely forget,

My small blotchy hands display,

The things I have done,

So look down,

I see them,

I know what I am.

Only hands can display, 

What not even tongue can,

With scars, warmth and patches,

The history I am.