I wake up and my hands wake up with me

I work, and yes, they work with me

The right writes endless strokes and dotted lines

Smoothly glides the tip of my pen against the vast white paper on my desk

It turns every page I lay my eyes on

And closes anything that needs to halt.

The left – – – it reaches, grabs, pushes and pulls, and serves as a cushion for my chin or my cheek, whichever is more comfortable

At some point, my right lets go of the pen

Tired and needing of some rest

It reaches for a small white bottle that rests in front of me

Its labels adorned with the daintiest pastels that easily catch the eyes

My right takes hold of the bottle and sprays some of its contents on my equally tired left palm

One, two sprays, and when I’m feeling a bit more generous, three, three sprays

A cold refreshing chill fills my palm

Complemented by a cool fresh innocent scent that can  soothe one’s weary soul

I gently rub my right hand against my left

Gently and softly, as if each one is giving the other a massage

Once I’m done, I allow the two unite

I lift them closer to my face, close enough for me to embrace their scent

And there, right at that spot, right at that moment

My hands and I allow ourselves a brief interlude from another day that’s about to end.

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