The hands wipe tears off her cheeks and pull his daughter in closer, rubbing small circles across her back. They put her world back together when she thought it was broken forever.
These hands are the comforters in hours of distress. These hands are that first moment of sun after a hurricane. They steadily hold the weight of a thousand worries in their grasp, and they do not falter or waver.
These hands are always there to support, to hold the bike as you wobble and weave, to brush your hair, to clean up the fragments of broken plates. They are experienced from the years they have been caring.
And they show that the seemingly ordinary is often extraordinary.
YOU ARE READING
Hands on Hearts
Short StoryIf eyes are windows to the soul, hands are doors to the heart.
