Her Hands

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Her hands are slightly wrinkled; they've been through a lot.
Constantly wiping tears, good and bad.
Sometimes her hands just lay there, waiting for the excitement to come to her. She begins to laugh hysterically at the silliness around her.
Her hands go flying like a bird that will fly for eternity.
All of a sudden the seriousness sets in.
Her hands loose their sense of fun and become still.
They look at me, and I look at them. I don't speak and they don't move.
Then, laughter fills the room again, and they become lively then ever.





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