The first time I remember my hands, I was 4, at the bus stop to pick my brother up from school. The waiting parents gathered around me, standing in a circle in the empty church parking lot, idly chatting. Grabbing at my mother’s knees and looking up, it wasn’t my mother, but instead our neighbor. Embarrassed, I played it off; made a game of it. I began running around inside the circle of adults, grasping at any pair of jeans before looking up to see if it was my mother. I continued until I found her, the laughter of people spurring me along. I learned quickly. I never grasped for something I didn’t fully understand again.

When I was 7, I was fluent in moving around the kitchen and performing simple tasks. Move the stool so that I can reach the cereal in the cabinet above the stove. Move to my toe tips so that I can wash my hands without the water running down my arms. Move cold pizza into the toaster oven to re-melt the cheese. Add another piece for my brother. Burn the base of my thumb. Shriek in my young naivety. Go to the bathroom quickly, run the burnt skin under cold water. Learn quickly, never touch the heat again. I will have this scar for the rest of my life, better make use of it. I can’t afford another. Lord knows, I will.

The first time I can remember noticing somebody's nails, I was 10, sitting with my 5th grade teacher, whom I had called “Mom” one too many times. The classroom was quiet, everyone else was out to recess. The room was dark, she was working on her laptop, a half-eaten sandwich sitting beside her. I was mesmerized by the short, square gel extensions on her nails, gently clacking against the keyboard. She changed them every two weeks. They were always simple.

I am no longer Sylvia. I am different. I am 15. I am taller and my limbs are long and weird and spots adorn my face and I am heartbroken (if only a little bit). My body aches and, even at my young age, my eyesight is not what it used to be. Now, I am aware and performing. Now, my hands, burned with the heat of my carelessness and love, are scarred. I go by a different name; because I am different, and how could the hands I look down to see today be the same as the ones grabbing at jeans, not yet aware of the careful precision of life? The only reminder is that scar at the base of my thumb. A scar which will carry for the rest of my life.