When I think of hands, I think of my mother's hands. They were the ‘immaculately clean, with nicely trimmed nails’ type of hands. They could do anything from working a knot out of a shoelace or with a flash, wipe a runny nose, or fix a zipper that was hopelessly stuck. They were immensely strong hands that could open any jar or package; pull you back from imminent danger or settle on your own hand with an ever-tightening grip when you waded into spoken territory that she thought bordered on ‘cheek’. They were the hands that could envelop your own and warm them when you came in from play or stroke your brow when you were sick. In later years they were the hands that pulled you up to dance with her when the mood struck, whether you wanted to or not. I loved her hands, they told you everything you needed to know about her, at times fierce, playful, or loving.
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Published online: April 12, 2022
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