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The Story of Hands

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.





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Macx14 said...
Nov. 26, 2010 at 12:20 pm
This is very moving and beautiful. Write like this more and I predict you could publish a book. Great job!
 
aliaswriter replied...
Nov. 27, 2010 at 8:29 am
Thanks, I'm glad you liked it! It was fun to write.
 
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