February 6
An elderly woman sat next to us on the trotro back from Busua. As she tapped her fingers along the edge of the large silver bowl in her lap, I was struck by the beauty of her hands. So full of grace and yet so weathered it seemed as though each wrinkle, each fold, told a story. It was clear that those hands had worked the land. They’d held many loved ones tight and brushed away many tears. They’d spent days in the sun and fed her family. They’d carried water home and they’d also shared in laughter. They seemed to tell of both hardship and joy and left me mesmerized at the amount it seemed could be accomplished with little other than your own two bare hands.
I looked at her hands, then back to mine, realizing once again how much I have to learn. I hope one day my hands will speak as loudly as hers did to me.
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