What My Hands Know

I took the shovel from your hands

like I'd done it before,

like my body was built for this kind of thing.

It wasn't.

Five minutes in

and my palms were already wet,

not from sweat—from breaking open.

A blister, clean and round,

like something was trying to escape

from under my skin.

You kept talking about the tree,

about how deep the hole needed to be,

about roots and soil and time,

but I was watching the shovel slip

in my grip,

watching my hands betray me

in front of you.

I should have said something.

I should have said I'm not strong enough

or I'm not built for this

or my body's got limits

that don't match what I want to do.

Instead I kept going.

Kept digging.

Kept pretending the shaking was just

from effort,

not from knowing that I can't

do the simple things,

that I'll always be the person

who fails at the obvious.

You probably didn't notice.

You were already planning ahead,

already thinking about the tree

getting bigger,

getting stronger,

putting down roots

that would actually hold.

I stopped digging

when I couldn't feel my hands anymore.

Told you it was deep enough.

You took the shovel back,

and I watched it move in your grip

like it belonged there,

like it had never slipped

at all.