Mother often says I look more like Father. And she loves it. I have his long, thin hands, with faint green and purple veins pulsing against the skin. 

Mother always told me I have pianist hands. I’ve seen those pianist hands she raves about, dancing across the black and white keys with effortless elegance yet daring springiness, like a spider’s predatory spin. 

Mother has plump stubs for hands. Like round sausages. She twists her wedding band around her finger and winces in pain. She can’t take it off. My mother has bulging fingers, but she still plays piano. I never learned.