My Mother's Hands

For twenty nine years since my birth, my mother's hands had always been the same.

Structurally of bone and veins and a thin layer of skin. Rolling hills and mountains on a warm summers evening. With nestled dashes of brilliant blue streams that work their way through. And the sunsets of pink and orange flesh. They were almost always warm to the touch, of course, how couldn’t they be? They were hers. Interesting how you can see and feel ones heart through their hands. Hers was indeed warm and inviting, bare for everyone to see. Strong, loving, and enduring. With hints of a lifetime that a daughter would know nothing about. When she lay dying her

hands were much different. These hands were a desert plain, hot to the touch and nearing its last sunset.