Hands

In the wierd dim light of my computer screen, my fingers look like strange blue sausages and my hands look too much like puffy blue biscuits. If I did not know any better, I'd say I'd just taken a much-too-powerful dose of a mind-altering drug. I know better. It's just the strangeness of the light and the plumpness of my odd little hands.

My mother wrote a story many years ago about her hands. Well, it was about her hands and her relationships with her brothers and sisters and her feelings of inadequacy and inferiority. But the story focused on her hands. They were beautiful hands, in her story. I wonder if my mother's story is coming home to roost in my plump little hands, the little hands that struggle to produce anything of value in this dim blue light, this wierd dim light of my computer screen.