Hands

Melba’s hands show the years she’s lived. And the way she’s lived. She asked to see my palms and we compared lines and knobs. Hers are impressive—evidence of living and loving. Her knobbed knuckles once tied knots to wrangle sheep. Now they hold Mario’s hands securely as she two-steps her 90-year-old sweetheart around the house—in a slow shuffle. She has bumps and deep, but soft divots that rip colored wool into strips then over and under and over, as she braids beautiful rugs made from old coats. I watch her pick up one of her crocks and she ran her skinny finger around the rim. She mentions that she stored butter in one similar to it. I wonder if it is the exact one that spent the summer on Cedar Mountain with her—then came full circle—back to squat on her big braded rug in the kitchen.