These hands

I look down at my hands and feel out of place. They aren't big or ugly, they're just uncomfortable in this unfamiliar setting. My hands, confident at work, are strong. I know, I have seen them guide errant clay to center. They are sensitive too. It is hard to describe what a wall of a pot feels like when it is too thin and about to collapse, or thick and holding extra weight, but my hands know. Put a pen in them and images appear in the margins of my notes, faces staring, forms lining the edges. Give them something to hold and they will hold it. Give them something to clean, they'll clean it. They will hold a child's hand, brush a sister's hair, knead and shape dough into loaves of bread. But if you lay them, idle, next to a dress of satin and put a thin silver bracelet around my wrist they feel uncomfortable and useless. Take off the apron and work boots and they feel too large and awkward. The hands that are so capable in one setting fidget, unsure in this setting, just waiting to be released from the fine trappings and games of elegance. All they want is to be let go to wash a dish or something. But something, please!