The woman’s hands are large; long fingered, small palmed. The color is like a pale rose, pink and cream, not weathered or worn. Soft palms that have slowly smoothed the hair of a newborn. Indents of the past mark her age, her experiences. The line of life lies lightly across its surface. Fingers, slender, delicate to the touch yet strong. The muscle beneath contained by only a small layer of skin, stretching thin to contain the fiery beneath. The nails filed round, sometimes painted, sometimes bare. Thick and sharp, like the blade of a knife, they lie ready to strike at a moments notice. The nails are weapons, to attack, to protect.
The woman’s hands, held hard by the young girl as they walk. Hand in hand, heart to heart.