Hands are very personal things. They are unique and individual. Hands tell the story of a life.
My Baba's hands are wrinkly. The fingers are a little crooked but strong. They kneed dough. They roll cookies. Her pinkies are delicate and turn in slightly at the last joint. Baba wears a ring with the birthstones of her five children. When she visits with people, her hands sit in her lap, occasionally bouncing a little.
Those hands have worked hard. They have milked cows, held baby chicks, cooked and cleaned for her ever expanding family. They have cradled me while I slept, tapped me on the back when I've done well, held me close.
And now they will be warm.