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January 16, 2013


I have this strange affection with hands. They are so beautiful. I feel like they are a window into a life.
This is, in my opinion, one of the most beautiful pictures from my wedding. Big Sis and SIL attaching my bustle after my wedding.
{Pic via CandidKama Photography}

The hands of the young are plump and soft. They have yet to handle what life brings. A babies hands are the most precious thing to me. Tiny. Soft. Always curled into little fists, ferociously grasping life.

One of my favorite things about my grandmother, was her hands. They were frail, but beautiful. They saw her through 99 and a half years of hard work. I loved sharing lotion with wither her, purposefully taking too much. I would take her cold, long fingers in my own and marvel at her thin skin and fragile, prominent veins. I would warm them as I massaged the sunflower scented lotion into the delicate wrinkles and creases. To me, they represented her life.
I loved her hands best.

With your hands you can give so much. Good and bad. There is nothing more powerful.

 Watching my mother, I always notice her hands when she uses lotion. I see my grandmothers hands. The beautiful lengthy fingers, the delicate skin, the beautiful nails. Even the multiple rings adorning each hand.

I miss my Grandma.

Those hands are my sisters legacy. My nieces. I can see the similarity in them. The long fingers. They are the caring and beautiful hands of the most important women in my life. I cherish those hands more than anything. In them, they hold every romantic memory of family.

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