Those hands are a memoir. They’re a classic narrative, a haunted mystery, an epic drama. Those hands are the leather-bound novel with yellowing pages, which slept for years under a blanket of dust in its antiquated age on a forgotten shelf in the back corner of a nameless bookstore. Those hands are an un-purchased masterpiece, waiting forbearingly to be picked up by the reader who gives its hoary cover a second glance. Those hands are a book full of secrets known solely to their author.

Knotted and creased, stained with liver spots, and freckled from seventy-five years of sun, those hands look like any other waning women’s. But those hands are a memoir. They’re a classic narrative, a haunted mystery, an epic drama.

The spindly blue veins coursing through those hands are a trail map, carving the road to a heart versed in the art of putting others before itself. The coral nail polish on those hands masquerade any dirt that may have crept its way under the fingernails; each stroke of pink paint erasing any suggestion that they were tarnished with grime from all the demanding work they are put to. Those hands are adorned with a sparkling diamond presented to their ring finger by a loving man years ago, repelling any other customers of her affection.

Age often fails our bodies, as is the case with hers. Eyesight diminished, the sense of touch takes the reins. It is no new task for them though; those hands have already glimpsed the world in a manner that which no eyes could ever behold. In their youth, those hands have grappled on to the utters of a cow and with each drop of milk, squeezed out another fraction of a Franc to be spent on food for their family. Those hands have shielded the eyes of a young French girl, as her ears betrayed the horrors of life during war. “À cœur vaillant rien d’impossible”; those hands caught these words as they floated bravely out of the mouth of her frightened mother. For a brave heart, nothing is impossible. Those hands shook with fear of the unknown as they gripped the cool metal railing of a boat as it set sail, fiercely trying to hold on to something as she let go of everything once known.

Over half a century has gone by. Those hands have not forgotten; they have held on to every terror, each misfortune, and all the hardships. But they have also forgiven; they have equally cherished all the blessings, the joyful memories, and the love they felt. I am sure of it. It’s demonstrated each time I watch those hands meticulously prepare a meal for her husband with the practiced ease of a seasoned chef. I have felt it when the warmth of those hands brushed my cheeks, absorbing my wet tears like the sultry sun to a puddle left behind after rain. Each and every time one of those wrinkled, arthritic, beautiful hands intertwines itself with mine, I am sure of one thing: I will always be safe in my Nanny’s hands.