I miss her hands. Soft and warm with long graceful fingers. Ridged with blue veins I would squish down with my fingers. The always-elegant nails filed into long ovals and gleaming with a coat of clear or neutral polish. The thick gold ring on her left hand that she so rarely removed. A few of the joints grew gnarled with age in the past few years. A smattering of brown spots appeared. But her hands were always soft. Always ready for a squeeze or a caress. When I knew she was dying, my only prayer was to get to her in time to hold her hand while it was still warm. I did. I was holding it when she died.
Today I miss her hands.