Two pairs of hands held soil up over the rim of a pot. Coarse grains clumped and broke apart, forming a shallow mountain in the hollow of a palm, and a red thread tied at the wrist stood out sharply against the black of the soil. Dim light seeped into the wet soil, and the temperature of a half-dried afternoon came through.
Look at a scene like this for a while and the fingers open a little on their own. The shoulders move away from the ears, and the eyes settle slowly toward the middle of the photograph. The breath has probably grown a little longer.
Only then does it come to mind that the hands have touched nothing but smooth things all day. Screens, handles, keyboards. A mind with no chance to touch anything rough and damp has stiffened somewhere.
Whether it is a pot by the window or a corner of the yard, take off the gloves and put your hands in the soil for about three minutes. What about following the grain of the particles as they slip between the lines of your palm while you clench and open your hand. Sprinkling a little water and watching the color deepen is enough on its own.
Even in the hours when soil is out of reach, the hands are always holding on to something. While the office elevator closes its doors and the floor numbers change one by one, it would be fine to quietly let go of the bag handle you are holding and leave your fingers open a little, as in front of the pot. For that moment, follow with your eyes closed how the belly swells and falls, and the way the shirt is pushed up at the waist and returns. About ten-odd seconds until the doors open.
Even after washing, one black line left under a fingernail follows you until evening.
