Crystal shattered on the kitchen floor. Brunello pooled. My hand froze mid-air. Richard, my husband, noted that my hands move constantly when I tell stories. I didn’t believe him — blissfully unaware they could not remain still when my mouth engaged. I began paying attention. Pointing, flapping, sweeping — my hands illustrated my every word. Objects within arm’s reach became unwitting targets. I examined how this habit started and recalled my mother. She talked with her hands. When she was younger, her slender fingers curved in artistic waves as she spoke. Her hands eventually thickened and grew calloused. Quieted only when rocking a squirming baby, pinning an unhemmed dress, or holding…