- Vol. 04
- Chapter 12
Image by Leio McLaren
MY MOTHER’S HANDS
My mother’s hands made two yards of lace for my bridal slip – the delicate froth swirled beneath my gown, later to lie beached on a sandy carpet while we frolicked in the snowy waves of a hotel bed.
Now the lace, too precious to cut, waits like a handful of dried foam for another gown, while my mother’s hands lie still as driftwood in her lap unable even to hold a teacup with ease.