He holds out his hand for a handshake. When I return the gesture, he laughs. I walk down the street, a chorus of laughter following me. Hands. My hands. My tiny, baby hands.
My hands are so small, I have extreme trouble opening the door. I can’t rest my head on my hands. My hands are too small. My life, crushed, by tiny, baby hands.
I am crushed while learning that there is no cure. My life, sad, pathetic, by these miniature hands God gave me. I am completely useless. Why did the world give me hands? I could live without these small hands. I could feel better with them gone. I wear long sleeves to cover them up. I am ashamed of them.
I can never play Baseball. The bat is too big, as well as the glove and ball. The same with Basketball. I cannot dribble a ball. It is too big, and it crushes my midget hands. I cannot do anything sporty, really. And I cannot write. Or draw. Or type. Or play video games. Or do housework. Or pay taxes.
I am forever cursed.
With baby hands.