My hands are not special, no different than anyone else’s. However, when I look at my hands, I see my history, my past and where I have been. I also see my future as my hands type this paper while working on a degree. These hands have brought me a long way. I used these very hands to hold my first bottle as a baby and learn hand to eye coordination. These hands were there when I caught my first baseball in the yard, cast my first fishing line and got dirty while playing in the dirt. These hands have brought me a very long way. My hands have character; they tell people who I am. My right index finger has a scar running down the middle of it; a result of a freak curtain rod accident when I was younger that earned me five stitches. This shows that I am adventurous. My right middle finger has prominent writers bump from a time before laptops. A time when we were forced to use pens and pencils. I have funny looking freckles on my right hand. This shows that I am older than most English 101 students. My hands are usually dry from over washing and use of hand sanitizer and will almost never have dirt under the nails. This shows that I am neat and clean; a habit drilled into me during recruit training. Both hands are callused from work and from time spent in the gym; the latter really needs to happen more though! My left hand carries my wedding ring; a sign of commitment and devotion to my wonderful wife. My hands have been there for me my entire life. They were there to help me protect myself and fight insurgents in Iraq. They were there when my wife slid that silver ring on my left hand. They will be there when I save a life as an EMT and later as a nurse. They will be there when I receive my degree at graduation. They will be there when I hold my son for the first time. My hands are special; they are different than everyone else’s. These hands are mine.
