Three times the charm.

I’ve always kept my hands
 
busy.
 
Toiling with the scraggly pieces of denim laying frayed at my knee holes while my parents fight in the car.
Tapping my cheek with my mouth open just so I can hear that hollow noise, one two three. Three times the charm. I’m still here.
I would crack all ten of my knuckles and still try for that second round.  
Like I said,
I’ve always kept my hands  
 
busy.
 
As a little girl they would always tell me to stop fidgeting. Interesting how adults seem to have all the wrong solutions to adolescent woes.
Playing an imaginary piano, twirling my hair strands, drumming a pen. One two three. Three times the charm. I’m still here.
I would light a cigarette while another was burning in the ashtray in the kitchen.
I’ve always kept my hands
 
busy.
 
Frantically rolling a one-dollar bill so I could inhale the powder that would ease my spiritual malady for the day.  
Pinching myself to try to stay awake while driving home from my waitressing job. One two three. Three times the charm. I’m still here.
Falling back onto my bed like a snow angel, with my palms towards the sky.
My hands,
 
lay silent.
 
I remember walking into that meeting feeling clammy. Colorblind and low.  
Someone handed me a blue book and I flipped the pages. One two three. Three times the charm.  
I’m still here.
 
These hands hold prayer now. They rest on my stomach for mindful breath. They rub a dog’s ear. They pour black coffee while eggs fry for breakfast. The hands that hold my grandmas each time she is near. They wash the dirt from strangers’ hair, cutting and styling it into something new. They grip the steering wheel tightly. They open the door. These hands pass a blue book to someone. Someone with bitten nails and shaky fingers.  
 
Someone else who has always
kept their hands
 
busy.