My hands, holding my son's teardrop,
at our recent grief camp memorial.
My hands, holding my daughter's teardrop,
at our recent grief camp memorial.
I read the prompt for this post the other
day and it created a memory for me from
a song I used to love and played often.
The song "Hands" by Jewel has this
chorus in it and you can see why I chose it:
"My hands are small, I know
But they're not yours, they are my own
But they're not yours, they are my own
And I am never broken"
My small hands are always noticed for
being so tiny in a grown woman. I wish
sometimes they were bigger but also do
appreciate that they don't take up too much
space and I can still wear kids gloves in
the winter! Recently, I began to see how
they are changing, with lines and wrinkles.
My gramma's hands fascinated me with
the aging process and now it's my turn.
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