I see her hands on my computer screen. Holding the little block that says “2”. They are stubby and there are traces of dirt under the nails. There are rubbings along the bottoms of the nail bed, probably where she scrapped herself while playing roughly.
My hands, as they type from the keyboard. A bit dry, uneven nails (yes, I still bite them occasionally). An impression of a wedding ring (at the jewelers getting repaired). Fingers long, not unlike
my son’s hands which are always in motion. His fingers always have been long and delicate, now they are often dry. Often reflecting his perpetual motion and energy, they get scrapped and cracked, but with some care (and lotion) they become shadow bunnies and owls and elephants in the flashlight he shines for her.
Her hands haunt me. Gnarled by arthritis, too white and blue with age, often baking cakes or making me tuna fish sandwiches, sometimes getting nipped by the squirrels she would feed peanuts to outside her back porch. My daughter will not know her, but she will know of her—the woman who she shares a middle name with.