Hands fascinate me. Holding hands, hand-in-hand, "Take my hand", "Can you give me a hand?". Some say the eyes are the windows to the soul. For me it's the hands. When I was taking care of my parents, I used to hold my dad's hand whenever I needed to tell him something important. He was nearly blind, and could barely hear, but if I held his hand in mine while I spoke, we seemed more connected. I miss my father's hands--strong, calloused, knobby. Accomplished hands. There are stories, there is history, there is trauma engrained in hands. It's all, right there, in the lines, in the way each finger joint articulates, and in the way each of the fingers relaxes just a little bit differently from the one next to it. So......I don't want get all
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