Her hands…

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.


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