Archaeology of Hands

My mother's hands knew how to hold without gripping— fingers loose around a coffee mug at dawn, around my childhood wrist in crowded markets.

Now I catch myself in mirrors, the same slope to the knuckles, the way my thumb bends back too far when I stretch. We inherit more than names.

The body keeps its own archive— creases, scars, the small tremor that says: you are becoming.

I trace the lines of my palm, not looking for futures, just recognizing the geography that brought me here.