What the Hand Knows

I grabbed a handful of dirt while planting

and stopped mid-motion.

The weight of it in my palm. The smell.

This is real in a way that most things aren't.

The earth packed into my hand,

filling the lines of my palm like a map

of somewhere I've never been,

my fingernails edged with black,

the small crescents darkened

as evidence of holding something true.

I could feel it shifting slightly,

the particles moving against my skin,

alive in a way that requires no heartbeat,

no intention.

I've been anxious all week.

Small things spiraling into bigger ones.

But standing there with dirt in my hand,

I remembered that this is what we're made of,

that this is temporary and permanent

at the same time, that nothing

holds together except by accident

and time and the small pressures

we apply without thinking.

I planted the thing I was planting.

The dirt stayed under my nails for days.

I didn't wash it off. I kept touching

my own hands, remembering the weight,

the realness, the fact that something

actual had passed through my palms.