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My childhood memories at church on Sunday mornings do not involve the life-altering message my pastor gave. My memories involve an array of ways to keep myself entertained while sitting on a brown vinyl chair. Activities included reading books, having my mom stroke my hair while I lay on her lap, counting the dimes and nickles I was putting in the offering, drawing on the bulletin and staring at my hands.

My grandma had grandma hands. Her veins were like speed bumps on the back of her hands. My veins were flat, but I could see them. I studied them while the pastor spoke. I wondered why they were blue but my blood came out red. I wondered why they didn’t stick up like grandma’s. I used a pen to draw around the veins. The veins formed an N shape. “Why N?” was all I thought to myself. why not S? If I turn my hand sideways I can see a Z, not an S. There is no N in my initials. My brother’s name starts with N. These should be his hands.

I figured out 13 or so years later that these hands were for me. N was added into my initials in the same church I discovered my odd hands. I like my hand veins.

This is the kind of thing I think about.

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