I looked at my hands today. Really looked at them. I saw my mom, years of heartache and strength.
I saw a scratch still red with blood in the little webbed part between my fingers. My boy cat did that and I just shrugged when it happened. Still stings a little but most hurt does for a while.
I saw crinkles in the skin that makes my cuticles. I saw it sitting there underneath the white moon in my nail and it reminded me of mom.
Her hands were so soft. And her rings-simple and meaningful. Like mine.
I saw my writing callus, almost gone from technology. When I run my thumb over it I felt the power of every pen I've held, every crayon I've created masterpieces with and every pencil I've flipped upside down to hurriedly erase mistakes.
And I think of mom again now. How she once told me to never write anything I wouldn't want someone to read.
It's why I'll never stop. I want someone to read me.
To hold my hands.
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