Struck by the hand

This morning I woke up and looked across our room at Lizzie.  Her hand was hanging down off the bed between the metal rails.  Against the white linens her skin was whiter and her hands appeared so soft surrounded by the billowy pillows.  Her finger nails painted red elongated her fingers ever so elegantly.    My eyes were struck by how vulnerable her hands were as she slept peacefully in our room.   I used to  admire her hands some 23 years ago when she was first born.  She’d be awake long into the night and I couldn’t stop admiring her perfectly formed hands imagining what she’d be.

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