Wednesday, May 1, 2013


Some people say the eyes tell a persons'  story. 

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For me the hands tell a story.

From mother to daughter to granddaughter to great-grand-daughter. 

Hands stroking a newborn babes face.

Hands holding a toddlers hands as they take those first tentative steps.

Hands rubbing a sick child's back.

Hands waving as a child leaves home.

Hands held as they endure life's obstacles.

Hands held tight as final goodbyes are made.


After my Nan passed away, I told my friend that it was her hands I would always remember. And I do. I remember how soft they were in mine as I said my final goodbyes and I remember times over the years, handing me cups of tea, playing her organ, showing me how to sew. One hand clutched around her electronic voice box as the other held her hand of cards. So many memories of her and of so many of my family relate to their hands. I've spent several hours this morning researching her family tree, which was supposed to be the topic of my blog post. Only I got sidetracked. Suddenly I find myself on a tangent writing an obscure blog post about hands.  

What about you? Is it the hands. Or the eyes. Maybe you prefer to dwell on feet instead? 

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