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All material is copyrighted and cannot be copied, in whole or part, without express written permission of "Links 2 Love."
Women and Other Foreigners©
by Montana Blue
Chapter Seventeen (continued)
The Hands of Women
Mrs. Donovan was flipping through pages of music. She stopped to gaze down at me with a smile. As she lowered her arm, she stirred a breeze of soap and lilacs.
"What dear?" she said.
I could see a reflection of myself in the glass of her round spectacles. The rusty coils of her hair fell toward me as she looked down.
"My hands?" I watched my lips barely move in her lenses, afraid to stir, she might forget, I might not hear her. I held my breath.
"Lovely, my dear, you have a pianist's long fingers and your hands are just lovely." She patted me gently on the head, then turned back to shuffle her sheets of music.
I was glad she had turned away and couldn't see the pools that had sprung into my eyes. The surprise of being touched, so softly touched, made my stomach twist.
I shuddered with a sudden thrill at its strangeness while the word "lovely" vibrated through me like a great-lost chord, over and over and over.
She had said "lovely." Like my mother's hands. They must be like my mother's. I looked at both of my hands to memorize every inch, bend, knuckle, pad, nail, wrinkle, cuticle and the position of three tiny moles.
I looked at Mrs. Donovan's hands as they fluttered though her papers. I wished my hands looked like Mrs. Donovan's. Her house was warm and smelled like candy. She looked at me and made me think of flowers. But her hands were paler and wider than mine.
From that day forward, I studied my hands diligently, and everywhere I went, I watched the hands of women.
Sneaked glances at one, long stares at another, twisted my hands into the
positions of theirs and watched. And waited.
For another set of my hands.
They were my glass slipper.
I had one set and when I found its match, I would find my mother.
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