Strong hands. I need strong hands.
When I was 14 I bounced backwards off a trampoline landing on my hands, and snapping my wrists. For 6 weeks I was in plaster cast, out of school and bored to my core. Then came the physiotherapy that I should have done, but the plane that flew us to Australia and my longed for childhood home of Papua New Guinea meant the exercises were forgotten and my wrists never truly became strong again.
This summer as I have moved chairs and boxes and helped take down a music festival, I have become aware of the result of my un- disciplined 14 year old self. I really should have done those exercises because it would have stopped the pain that shoots through the muscles as I move things or put too much pressure on them.
I need strong hands (and wrists) to get through this little life I am living. Because strong hands are what lead me to where I go. Strong hands mean firm handshakes and the ability to fix things. They mean that you can hold things and carry things.
Strong hands can save you and mould you.
Strong hands guide me in the rough paths, amongst the jagged rocks and tight corners.
Strong hands, I need strong hands to keep me steady.