Raisin Hands

MORGAN: I’ve tried for a very long time to love my hands. I was a shy kid because of it. These hands- they were never raised for a question in class, never asked a girl to dance. They weren’t hands that had much practice in showing off. They weren’t hands that could draw King Arthur’s sword or throw down John Henry’s mallet. Meek, nimble hands. One Tuesday, my mother enrolled me in piano lessons. I was so nervous that day, thinking about being stuck at a piano with a stranger with no way to cover my hands from them. I looked for band-aids everywhere in the house, just to hide the places I’d scratched the night before. But alas, it was time for my lesson. I took a seat and before I knew it, they were god’s hands now. Hands that made me realize that heaven must be full of music. That my god was a god who paced behind his dressing room door, waiting for them to announce him onstage. That music is what can make any room turn into a church. That now, I know it’s true when they say a magician is only as good as his best illusion because when I’m on stage, they can’t fucking touch me. I was a messiah, I did fly but never too close, they always missed my heel, I went right in all the stories that went wrong, and I was immortal. I was immortal when I played. Everyone should be able to experience something that marvelous at least once in their life. Just once. Even if, just once.
BAO: How are your hands doing now?
MORGAN: In the summer, they still dry like raisins in the sun.