She had the hands of an artist. Worn and often stained from the dirt, for she liked to spend her waking hours in the garden. Flowers of all kinds spilled over the edges of her garden, all nurtured lovingly from the earth with her own hands. Coaxing them from the ground with sweet melodies that floated from her lips seeping into the soil like the rain water from a gentle downpour. It was a space to call her own, a place to take her in when she needed it most and in time, she would watch the garden nurture her own child. A haven that had grown older, like herself, and was now capable of giving back its warmth and love. Her hands too grow older. A once smooth canvas made for the lines that map out her life. Her fingertips callused from playing the piano for hours at a time, her palms smooth from cradling the dirt and her fingernails worn down from the nerves that continuously rippled up in her chest. Time would soon take her voice, sucking the melodies out from deep within her soul; stealing that natural ability to communicate in her, peeling away her means to nurture. But if you look closely, the little girl's story lingers over her hands. She will always reach out for you. The same nurturing hands that tenderly stroked away the hair from a young girls face, that comforted and consoled a trembling child, and if you listen to her. You can still hear her. Her voice weakened and frail, but her soul is just as alive and loving as it ever was.
