Time to Iron My Hands!
In the early hours, before the swallows sing, I shift restlessly in bed. My hands are clenched from cumulative hours of grasping tools and milking goats. I sandwich my hands between pillows to remind them to bend the other way instead of eternally curling fingertips towards palms. I am a tool-using primate. My body takes on the cast of the tools I use and what I do. As the season wears on, hands and feet toughen. My freckles darken. A friend takes a video of me driving
