She had perfect hands before arthritis. They were not too small, not too large, just perfectly done – always a crooked pinky tho. I will never know why our pinky lifts a little higher than the other fingers – the least, being the greatest?
As a youngster, our hands are so plump and don’t show the work that is illustrated via lines, popped blood vessels, and a certain tremor that threatens to overwhelm the nicest of handwriting.
Her hands were always busy sewing, cooking, baking, playing a stray Allegro, and holding mine.
One memory shall always linger – her hand in my own as we walked together.
It was a firmly held, gentle grip of much love.