When she was a girl she had been vain about her smooth, white hands. After she married, she was proud of the tenderness of those hands as they cared for her babies. Once her children were grown she prided herself on the things her busy hands created – from baking and preserving to sewing and weaving.
Now she was an old woman her hands were twisted and knotted, although they still cooked and cleaned and cared.
She frowned at the papery skin.
Her husband caught the direction of her glance.
“I like your hands,” he smiled, “they show you have lived.”
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