Small fingers made especially small by bitten nails. Sometimes my hands already look old, but today they are brimmed with color. They feel warm as I lay them across the keyboard, hangnails beginning their petal peeling, veins protruding underground pipelines. I have my mother’s hands – not glamorous or manicured, but gardener’s tools. They are hands needing work. They are hands milling softly through hair. They are hands nursing hummingbirds and cradling toads. Arthritically grown in soil, knuckles knobby roots, the arm shoots – a sweat pea cresting a trellis.
Don't steal. It hurts my feelings.
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The poetry of hands, a family history, genealogy. If she were here to compare, I swear the spots I now carry are in the same positions as my mother’s. xo
I love that. My mom and I look identical. There’s a nice feeling knowing what you’ll look like when you’re older. We are the roots and seeds. xo
Hey, I finally got on your website,and remember going to your soccor games in Davis,and when you were in tournaments down our way.You were a darn good player,and have some bumps and injuries from playing your heart out.I think it’s good that you’re back in the game again. I don’t think you will ever have the ugly hands that I have,thank goodness,but love the blurb re your and Deb’s hands.I’m glad that neither of you have the arthritis I’ve had-exsaberated by volley ball injuries,unfortunately.Hey,play on!!!!xxxxxG’ma
Thanks! It’s been fun to go out and play again despite all the bumps.
Your hands were always working – even with the arthritis. You never let them stop you too much, so yes, PLAY ON! xoxo