A work that is particularly dear to me. A work that has taken me so long, nights, love.My mother's hands,... Read More
A work that is particularly dear to me. A work that has taken me so long, nights, love.
My mother's hands, the hands of all mothers.
The wrinkles of time and fatigue, of a thousand caresses to three daughters grown with strength and constancy. The rings he has been wearing all his life. Nails once long and neat, now shortened by necessity. The bluish veins that he also transmitted to me. The knuckles reddened from a lifetime's work.
