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Hands

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Soft, so soft. My hands are so soft. Soft and small. Ever so small. Small palm, small fingers, small nails, and through my fingers, I see my mother. My mother sitting on the couch. My mother reading. She holds the book with her pretty hands. Pretty for their long, long fingers. Pretty for their long, long fingernails, painted in bright colors. Pretty because when I'm falling asleep, they stroke my face, slowly and gently, ‘till I fall asleep. So soft, softer than my hands, softer than my pillow. How I love those soft, pretty hands. And my dad’s hands, big like baseball mitts. Big and rough. Big, rough, and strong. Strong enough to hold me up, and rough like alligator skin, but still soft, in a way. Those hands, those big, big hands, the hands that fixed the leaking sink, the hands that repaired the engine in the car, those hands. Those hands, they do so much. Oh, how much I love those hands.

But my hands, small and soft, cannot fix leaking sinks or repair car engines. My hands, they do not have long, long fingernails, painted in bright colors. They are not big, strong hands, or pretty, long hands. Simple hands, that’s what they are. Not hands for fixing, not hands for beauty. They are just hands, and they are mine. Soft and small. Ever so small.



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