In the driver’s side door pocket of the blue Tundra is a large bottle of hand sanitizer. The pump works smoothly to deliver that recommended quarter-sized dollop of liquid that’ll do in a pinch when soap and running water are still miles away at home. A mere eight weeks ago, I knew the bottle was there but didn’t pay homage after each time I touched the steering wheel or the gear shift. I still don’t partake that frequently but I’ve also never been more conscientious of what I’ve touched in the course of a day than I am now. Perhaps we have that in common.

Lately, I’ve been assuming my place in a long line of ancestors who struggled with arthritis, noticing that each day, my left thumb doesn’t step up to the plate (or, in some instances, the pickle jar) like it used to, and the choice before me is either ask Patrick for help, or not have pickles. For a lot of reasons, I’m glad Patrick is in my life. Sometimes, it’s as simple as zesty dill sandwich stackers. But I’m losing my grip, literally, and in those moments, I cradle one hand in the other, and muse about where both of them have been.

This morning, they worked in concert to remake the bed, grasping the top hem of the sheet and quilt in one glorious swoop to billow down flat and refreshed over the mattress. Just yesterday, they were both gloved and grasping fallen sycamore branches out in the old chicken pasture, breaking them deftly across my left knee. Each and every morning, they feel the silken flat strand of dental floss tighten around both index fingers to create a taut bridge of gum-cleaning wonderfulness that I’m sure not many folks appreciate with as much zeal as I do. And we haven’t even talked about feeling the vibrations of the Sonic toothbrush in the palm of my right hand, giving its all to keep my quarterly professional cleanings as short as they can be.

Settled into our respective places on the couch after dinner, I reach my right hand across the small bit of space between Patrick and me, and squeeze his left hand in thanks for the way his fingers pinched just the right amounts of turmeric and salt to add to the potatoes, carrots, corn and broth that he turned into soup. His left hand returns the squeeze while his right thumb scrolls through the selection of new work gloves available on Amazon. I know he knows I’m there, no matter how it may appear.

Both of our left hands “outgrew” the wedding bands my brother Mike made for us nearly thirty years ago. His skilled hands etched and carved white gold with native storyteller-type images of how Patrick and I met, fell in love and joined our separate lives into one. The grooved spiral center lines of a Navajo wedding basket design have been smoothed into one flat circle, the edges no longer distinct, but I remember what they looked like before our ceremony when Mike opened the jeweler’s box in which they traveled from LA. Quite by accident, he’d molded the bands so that they nested perfectly one inside the other.

In June 2018, I joyfully put mine back where it belonged after the hands of a skilled local jeweler sized it up just large enough to pass over the arthritis-stricken knuckle of my ring finger. Patrick’s still lives in the bottom of an undisclosed trinket box waiting it’s turn.

Our cats seem to think our hands exist solely to rub their furry jowls and scoop food into their dishes. From their perspective, they’re right, of course, and we dutifully obey. They’re less interested in how we snap the lids back on the Tupperware or reach our gloved fingers into the chicken hutch to pluck the solitary egg from our one layer’s belly-rounded nest of last year’s hay. Just fill the bowls, please, and we’ll leave you alone.

My dad used his hands a few times to show us less-than-polite sign language after we begged him to interpret a Saturday Night Live skit that spoofed “The Exorcist”. His time at Gallaudet and his good work at the state school for the deaf may have suffered a bit in the dignity category, but I know how to say “your mother eats kitty litter and wears combat boots” in ASL. Not on my resume, but in my hip pocket should the need arise.

And the stories go on…all the things my hands—our hands—can do. Get to do. Have to do. It’s a helpful pause in the current state of affairs to consider your own pair and take in the full impact of their employment. From simple functions like reaching up to brush those few strands of hair out of your eyes to the rhythmic pushing and pulling and folding of bread dough for at least 8 - 10 minutes, our palms with their attached digits perform remarkable and wondrous tasks. If you’ve ever changed your own oil or spark plugs, pushed an electric lawn mower with one hand and flipped the long orange cord over your head with the other hand to keep the cord away from the blades when you turned into the next row, or balanced the mail and your car keys and the full but handle-less bag of groceries on your way from the car (kicking the door shut with one foot. We can do a bit on feet later, I promise) to the front porch without dropping anything, you know what I mean.

When was the last time you made a fist? Cupped a child’s face? Removed a splinter? I remember the first time I ever tried to flip someone off. I was in eighth grade, walking to a friend’s house a few blocks from my house and a car rolled through the stop sign as I was crossing the street. Adrenaline rushing, I raised my hand, checked around to see if anyone else was looking, and flicked the necessary finger into the air. Along with its companion index finger, flipping the offending driver the peace sign. A mixed message, to be sure, if my facial expression was allowed to throw in its two cents. I dropped my hand immediately, smiled weakly at no one, and took my blushing face the final steps to my friend’s front porch. I’ve told no one about that incident until now. I regret to inform you that I am better at executing that gesture now, though it still feels wrong and incomplete, to “wave” at anyone using only select fingers. I thank my mother for teaching me discretion.

We’re keeping our hands clean nowadays, with near-obsessive regularity. I realize that for some of us, it’s a new practice, and will require more practice for some time to come. I can’t remember when I last shook anyone’s hand or touched a door handle without thinking “where’s the closest restroom with soap and water?”, but here we are. I only hope we don’t let the current urgency for safety and cleanliness overshadow the miracle of fifty-four bones and over sixty muscles working daily in concert to open our beer bottles, shampoo our hair, and type each sentence of the next great American novel.

Two of the best tools we’ve got, folks. Hands down.