My hands looked nothing like my hands. That's the first thing I thought when...

My hands looked nothing like my hands. That's the first thing I thought when I finally sat down on the porch steps, the wood still warm from the afternoon sun. I turned them over, palms up, and they were someone else's. Red, raw, the skin at the base of my fingers swollen into ridges I'd never seen before. There was a small blister already forming on the pad of my right index finger, a little balloon of clear liquid that I kept staring at, expecting it to pop.

I could still feel the vibration of the shovel handle in my bones. The way the metal bit into the red dirt, the shock traveling up my arm, settling in my shoulders. By noon, I'd developed a rhythm - plant my foot, lean, twist, lift. But the hands didn't care about rhythm. They just took the punishment.

There was dirt packed under every nail. Not the kind that washes off with a quick rinse. This was baked in, the kind of dirt that's been there since morning, mixed with sweat and the grease from the old rusted wheelbarrow I'd been pushing around the yard in Mbare. The calluses I thought I had from lifting weights at the gym? Laughable. Gone by the time the sun hit its peak. What replaced them was a tenderness that felt almost embarrassing, like I'd been caught pretending at something.

I ran my thumb over the opposite palm and winced. The skin was hot, almost feverish, and there was a dull ache that pulsed with my heartbeat. I flexed my fingers and they protested, stiff and clumsy. Even gripping a glass of water felt foreign - the smooth surface against my damaged skin made me realize how much I'd taken that simple feeling for granted.

At some point, I just held them out in front of me, watching the light fade from orange to purple, and thought: so this is what it looks like to have done something real.

#Notes #PersonalStory #WritersOfNircle #TheStruggleIsReal #Labour #Hands #DayInTheLife