WRITERS EYES / ASCRIBER Uniting Writers Around The World Online Writing Group Group Home Page Back to workshop submissions

I suppose that, as hands go, they were not particularly beautiful ones. The fingers were short and stubby, twisted by arthritis, nails broken and worn from years of work. Too many dishes had passed through those hands, transformed from dirty to pristine and gleaming, so many buttons had been sewn on by those same fingers and countless tears wiped from a grubby cheek.

Burn scars marred the back of the right hand, gleaming white even against the paleness of the almost transparent skin. The palm of the left displayed the jagged reminders of a shard of mirror glass long since snatched from an infant's grasp.

Age spots stood livid against the ivory flesh, blue veins tracing their paths like rivers (or even road maps) going nowhere - or somewhere - all too fast.

The nails were deeply ridged along their length, and white flecks glinted as, even then, the hands tried to compose themselves into the familiar shape of prayer, then fell back, quivering, onto the coverlet.

I held them between my own, fluttering like butterflies in a jar, yet as cold as if night had already fallen.

And, as I held those hands that one last time, I knew that my mother's hands were the most beautiful hands in the world.

Filial devotion and in-depth observation combined to present a touching and beautiful piece of writing. The word excellent as a description seems to short change the work.

J.Williams.

Group Home Page