Wedding photographers have a way of emphasizing hands: the left ring finger, the fist around the bouquet, the gentle clutch of two people who’ve promised to never let go.

“Let go!” He shouted, and his entire team released their white-knuckled grips on the spiky rope. The other kids grunted and toppled to the ground, and he claimed the victory for this round of tug of war.

War. One shot, mere seconds, a handful of blood. “Good thing it’s your left!” The well-intentioned would say but he was left-handed and bitter.

Bitter. She swore that when she became a mother she wouldn’t forget to rub her daughter’s back to coax her to sleep.

Sleep. I wonder if he knew I was awake while his gently clawed hands explored the side of my face, slowly, intimately, as if he wanted it to mean something.

Something. Anything. I just had to photograph a new set of hands each day to pass the class. Mom clutching the wheel, Lucy grabbing spinach, strangers holding themselves upright at a picnic. And I captured them.

Welcome to Microvember, my take on NaBloPoMo. Each day this month I’ll be posting microfiction, short vignettes, or poetry, accompanied by photography. See more Microvember posts here.