Hands

I've found that I've had a recent fascination with hands. I've always admired people's hands... and their feet, too.

When I was sitting the death watch last week, all I could think was that I never got a still life of my grandmother's hands. I wanted desperately to go home and get my camera, but I didn't want to leave her.

Her hands were lovely. Unlike many older people, she had not developed the liver spots or age spots. Her skin was papery thin and very delicate. Her fingers were graceful but with the large knuckles of someone who lived and knew how to use her hands. Her palms were a pretty pink and her skin color was still good. Her last two fingers on each hand were curl in with Dupetryn's, a bane to her in the last years. Her left pinky finger was slightly marred by a childhood accident with a door or window... I could never remember the story. Earlier in her hospital stay, I had given her a manicure, cutting her nails short and shaping them in the sharp curve complimenting her thin fingers. I had painted the clear polish on the nails, not knowing the shine would last an eternity. The only image that remains of her hands is the one I see in my mind's eye. I write this now to help cement this image.