My mother taught piano and plays beautifully. I have heavy hands and tend to pound the keys. All right for Wagner, I suppose, but useless for anything else.

It even applies to the keyboard. I pound the keys as if typing on an old manual typewriter. I don’t know why – I like the staccato tapping I make – no one else does, and anyone in the room with me will usually beg me to “type softer!”
But I can’t.

I have heavy hands when I type or play the piano, but I can write delicate prose, and when I draw, my hands are light.
I can’t knit, I can’t sew, and I can’t hammer a nail without bashing myself on the thumb. But I can take a splinter out of my daughter’s hand before she knows I’ve even started.

I can’t iron and I can’t fold clothes, but I can make sand castles with pointy turrets and arched gates. Somedays I think about my talents and my failures. Today it’s my hands. The tap-tap-tap of the keys puts my dogs to sleep and sends my son upstairs to his room (and quiet).

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