Drifting back and down in the back eddy of the meandering brook, the two leaves were reminders of her aging mother’s hands, the lacey patterns of fine blue veins a testament to the beauty of growing old.
As the mottled, almost translucent leaves slowly moved with the current, so her hand would guide the hand of her granddaughter to properly place the piece of the puzzle, to turn the next page of their book.
With her hands she created. With her hands she wiped away tears. With her hands she loved.
Her hands were a living extension of her intellect, of her strength, of her spirit and of her faith.
No words need be said when held in her warm embrace.
No impatience need be expressed when with tented fingers she became lost in thought.
No interpretation need be made of the memories that surely had returned as she absently rotated her wedding band round and round.
So many proclamations of her deep affections without saying a word.
Just with her hands.