Quick fingers

Long and precise, fingers dance.
Up, down, fast, slow… Forever and ever they’re moving.
Everyone in my family has quick fingers.
My dad has fingers that are made for working on cars. They are dirty and soiled with grease. His nails are broken and bitten down, and the creases at his knuckles are black. His fingers are always bloody and full of splinters.
My mom has very knowing fingers, for working on teeth. Scrape, scrape, scrape. Not a bit of plaque is missed. Her nails are round and shiny like mother of pearl, and they always wear a bit of pink polish. I like her fingers.
My brother’s fingers are still nice, because he’s young and hasn’t known a day of hard work in his life. His hands are small, because he hasn’t hit puberty, and they have a few little scars on them from skateboarding accidents. He has reckless, kid hands.
My hands are long and a little mismatched. My nails are bitten down and my fingers are puckered and red because I’m always fussing with them. I wonder sometimes when I’m painting them, black always black, if my hands are the fastest of all of my family’s. They are quick from my middle school days of playing video games, and even quicker as they fly across a keyboard.
We all have quick fingers in this family.