Everybody in my family has different hands. My brother’s hands are like a floor, all dirty and worn down. And me, my hands are tired. They’re constantly hammering out homework or drawing doodles. My mother’s hands are cold and clean. She doesn’t need to moisturize them. Pop’s hands are sandpaper--scratchy on your skin. And Tater, who is the puppy, has paws like a lion.

But my sister’s hands, my sister’s hands, like little porcelain dolls, with nails like little diamonds all sparkling and pretty because she filed and painted them all day, soft to rub your face to when she’s running them through your hair, running them through your hair and you feel stress free, are the citrus smell of lemon lotion before it all soaks in, are the smell when she goes to Bath and Body Works still looking for more, and you go with her, the sun outside shining and music jamming. The music, the sunshine, and Kayla’s hands that smell like lemons.