|Posted by Tia Price on May 7, 2016 at 6:25 AM|
It's all in her hands.
Everything she creates and touches, the hands are there, guiding the way.
If it's cleaning and dusting, the grip is within her mitt.
If it's massaging an ache, kneading and doughing out the ceases in the muscle, the skin, it's the four fingers and thumb that's doing the work.
If it's rubbing a back in a hug of comfort.
Holding a script, running her finger along the print to remember. Remember.
If it's holding a paintbrush.
Stirring a meal.
A life story, speaks, from the worn overworked claw that twitches from the end of her arm.
The hump on the thumb root, the fingers stained from a cigarette too many.
Such a long lifeline..
They work so hard and do so much but age is setting in.
Those hands have worked magic for not yet too long a time, but wear is beginning to show.
The cuticles never moisturised. The nails barely painted.
Au naturelle, they show the age and use.
Wrinkles are beginning to form and it saddens her.
A judas vein showing itself brazenly on the surface.
Knowing her best is behind her, already, not even halfway through a lifetime.
Old for so long that we are alive, it's starting to show.
Moistening aids, barely of use now and painted nails make her look cheap, wrong.
They've never been a ladylike shape.
She must know this, her hands tell her story.
They say she works hard.
They say, I have done my best.
Categories: My own private drama.