Words are slow these days. My world shrank in the last weeks and months with the grey of postpartum depression. It’s a not a deep, dark grey; but it’s there and I feel a little smaller and quieter than normal. But in a little Facebook group I get a short writing prompt every Thursday night for a five minute piece of unedited writing to be shared the next day. I’ve decided to brush up some of those and post them here on Fridays. Our first prompt was Hands.
Hands talk. They hurt; they heal. They show impatience, and they speak love. An iron squeeze and the gentlest touch come from the same fingers.
Hands carry. They carry so much more than just what they carry. They carry love in the meal delivered after baby. They carry weight in that letter from school or your boss. They carry comfort in a warm a latte brought by a friend. They carry joy in a bouquet of dandelions.
Hands hold. Tiny hands hold our fingers and melt our hearts; strong hands pull us close and shelter our souls.