Only the Hands

There were two hands the day I left my parents house. They were the constant, the characters recognizable from each setting, from the film that the camera that was me was making. The camera that was moving too smoothly, too quick, to focus, that only always knew those two white shapes, those odd shapes that hands are really, always in front of those blurring color and textures. Clothes are rough and soft after the smoothness of wood when you pull it, the drawer, open, and there is a sharp sting and snag and cold where your skin meets the bedframe which is metal and will make you bleed. But the hands do not know this, for the frame is shin height and so it is only vague and does not really exist, only the hands down the hallway, the slight bumps, braille patterns of paint down the hallway, away from your roon. Past the pictures, past the toilet and the cold yellow knob of the closet. Past the tile you used to make her play hopscotch on before her feet end to end would fill one. Heel toe, heel toe and No no you can never step out of that square, no you will have to crawl onto me, freckled skin over ribs, and I only I will carry you to safety. In the corner of the film you will see her, or something sister sized, static like the half dries painting the hands have scrambled and mismatched. She will be standing there, green and brown against the braille cream white paint of the hallway, but you will not see if her mouth is open, because the hands are blind, you see, and only they will lead you, will push the screen door open loud and they will be in front, in focus as the body behind them trips and the reel flips out. Only that final frame, the hands half suspended, falling.