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A Legacy

Even though they were never slimly tapered hands with beautiful straight fingers, my hands were once very nice. I’ve always been able to grow long, strong nails that were nicely shaped and feminine. I have never babied my hands. It shows. My always-crooked fingers are more so. The skin of my hands is dry and has that criss-crossed look of crepe. I have scars and a liver spot.
And you know what? I don’t mind, not one little bit. I am almost 55 years old and my hands are a badge of my work ethic and my skill set. They may not be pretty anymore, but I am proud of them. My hands are my expression of self. If you want to see who I am, who and what I love, what I am passionate about and what is important to me, watch my hands. If you want to know what I know, watch my hands.
My hands know how to do things without my brain having to pay much attention. Like typing this post. The words come from my brain and effortlessly flow from there to the keys of my computer. My hands know some of the notes…

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