Now that everyone’s needs are met, I think I will finally enjoy that cup of breakfast tea and cheap honey.

Although it is night time now, I will clutch my cup with the dull hands I employ to prep raw chicken and scrub burn from pans.

The dull hands I use to slice mangos, peel grapefruit, and cut gala apples.

The dull hands I use to grip the steering wheel the moment I become numb to the routine of driving and sort of zone out.

I will hold onto my cup with the dull hands that put out fires and juggle responsibilities of home, work, art form, and community.

Hands that massage the emotional and physiological needs of everyone.

In a moment, I will take these chafed, dull hands that resemble sandpaper, clasp them, and ask God to give me strength to shoulder and fold the load of life and laundry.

It is with my dull hands that I will sullenly wash and load the final dish before laying hands on myself, ushering Grace back in.

The kitchen sink is my vulnerable place.

Clinnesha is a writer, wife, mom, meta-artist, and social entrepreneur who feels most accountable to southern, black citizen-artists, elders, children, and families. Her work is at the intersection of arts, culture, innovation, and community.