Thursday, March 14, 2013
I smiled, as I watched her slowly lift each finger and lightly tilt it, side to side, to apply the polish.
Ange was holding my hand, but I was staring at The Madre's hands.
I remember being little and being fascinated with her hands. I remember the shape of her fingers and the wrinkles of her knuckles. I remember watching her paint her nails; I remember their slight ridges and naturally square shape. I remember that you could see the bones in her hands and as she moved her fingers and I liked that. I remember thinking that she was old, though she probably wasn't much older than I am now. :)
Those hands have loved me so well. They held me tight until I was ready. And let go when it was time to fly.
I couldn't help but feel like, maybe, I had made it. I have the hands so, maybe, just maybe, I can be half the lady, mom, friend, The Madre is. . . .