Her hands were a dry, chalky white color and wrinkled with the slow passing of time. They trembled slightly, as if the strength they once held was slowly ebbing out of them. One would not think it to be so, but these hands weren't always ancient. They were at one time young hands, hands that pulsated with a growing vivacity. Only time had transformed these hands into a decrepit state. These palms were not smooth, but merely worn down like softened leather. These fingers had lived, cared, and caressed those around them. They had cradled a new life and had clasped death. They were her hands, and they were beautiful hands, not because they were delicate and pristine, nor were they covered in lavish jewelry, or in the prime of their youth, but simply because they existed to serve others with a selfless and tireless passion.
The Story of Hands
November 22, 2010