Hands. When Mum lays me down on my tummy I push myself up on my hands and then I see all sorts of interesting things. There's Mum. Hi Mum. Look at me. Thought that would make you smile.

Hands. Warm soft sand running through my fingers. If I dig deeper the sand is firm, cool and damp. I put some of the nice dry sand in my bucket and turn it upside down, just like Dad does, but it all runs out.

Hands. They're all red and blotchy and they hurt. Mum says those pretty white flowers made them hurt. She puts some smelly pink stuff on them and says that will make them better, but it doesn't.

Hands. Fingers wrapped around a crayon. I draw pictures. I draw one of Dad and Mum says, "That's a nice flower, dear."

Hands. A pencil, hard and uncomfortable, between my first two fingers and my thumb. Teacher says I must hold it this way if I am to learn to write properly.

Hands. My hand hurts again. I hit my sister but she was harder than I thought. Then she told Mum and Mum smacked my hand, so now it hurts twice.

Hands. Red nails like drops of blood at the end of my fingers. I massage my hands with lemon scented cream. I file my nails and push back the cuticles. My hands are soft and I am very proud of them.

Hands. Fingers flying over the typewriter. Clickety, clickety, click. I pause only to wrap hands around my teacup, feeling the warm.

Hands. My love's warm soft skin under my fingers. I caress, I explore. I delight in the feelings my hands can arouse.

Fingers. With this ring I thee wed.

Hands. Warm soapy water, J-cloths and Fairy liquid. Disinfectant, bleach, Persil and Marigolds.

Hands. Clickety, clickety, click. Knitting needles replace the typewriter. Matinee jackets and bootees.

Hands. To hold, to protect. To wipe bottoms and apply nappy rash cream. Now I know why I have hands. A tiny, miniature version clings to my finger.

Hands. Raw red liver squirms beneath my knife. Chopped onions make my eyes water and I must wash away the blood before I can wipe away the tears.

Hands. Broken nails like jagged rocks at the end of my fingers. I massage my hands with lemon scented cream. I file my nails but I do not push back the cuticles. My hands are no longer soft and I am ashamed of them.

Hands. My mind must make my hands clear up the cat's sick.

Hands. My joints begin to swell and the fingers are stiff. Clickety, clickety, click now comes from the bones. Rheumatism, arthritis and old age.

Hands. The light begins to fade. A large, gentle hand clings to mine. It holds the hand but cannot hold the spirit. My hands are still now.