“I know you like the back of my hand,” is something he would probably say. And I suppose he’s right. He knows how to make me mad, as well as how to convince me to forgive him. A man with hands that know when to hold on and when to let go. 489Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ882WJGKpvb
They belong to a man who write essays and reports about political freedom – but more importantly, the people governments are meant to protect – and are heartily failing at. He’s a modern Alexander Hamilton with so many ideas and speeches people either love him or turn off his notifications on Facebook. He’s a devoted man, his hands waving around his head as he describes how systems can be improved, discussed and implemented. Behind every political move he sees the working, bleeding, desperate hands of his nation and shakes his head sadly.
He is a man that when he gets his hands on something or someone he cherishes, he fights until his hands are bloody. Real power, he would say, is looking in the face of a child and saying you’re going to fight for their future – and give him the strategies to harness his own potential. This man is a realist, he knows pain. He does not stay up in the clouds, rather lassos them and pulls them down to the ground.
And who am I to this man? I am the light under his feet, gripping his tired, inked hands and promising an unfailing trust and faith. He is a man who needs responsibility to move, a fire to burn, a problem to solve. His hands are never still. Always moving, always trying to make a difference. I am his humanity, his joy, his childlike wonder when he forgets how to smile. He is a rock given purpose, once unmoving, now a cornerstone to a house building around us. And his hands. Those determined, stubborn and often gentle hands are building it around us – brick by brick.
He is not perfect, his hands have done wrong in the past - they have reached for things better left alone. But hands can be washed. He can look at the lines that marked his past and determine to work for each line scrapped across his palms.
I believe in him and his restless hands. Together, perhaps we can stand for those still climbing to their feet. We can use our own strength to reach down and grip hands with those who never knew they had a chance to rise.
Because once, we were just like them.
ns 172.70.34.8da2
