thejordanriver
my mother's hands were always the proudest part of her body, i think because they were similar to her own mother's, who had passed away before i was born. long, thin, with perfectly manicured nails and often adorned with my grandmother's jewelry. when the pain came, she hid it. but soon, the rough folds and wrinkles took over, and no longer manageable, she would cry, feeling her youth slip through those slender fingertips.
the house sat high on rickety stilts as the waves crashed thunderously against the shore. With each pounding splash, she shuddered into him. Huddled into the cold darkness of their living room, the power out, the blanket doing little to keep them warm, they each said nothing, but silently prayed.
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