Worn. By the time I knew her and them, brought into this world through her womb and love, they were worn. My mother’s hands. Nails never polished. Sometimes covered with grime. Other times with skin shriveled by dish washing or laundry. Never clenched, even when angry. Constantly closed in prayer. Oh, how she prayed. Often they touched my head as she walked by. A gentle touch that sometimes startled. Conveying me back from wherever books had transported me. Volumes she spoke with her loving touch, without saying a single word. My mother’s hands.
Today’s prompt: Fingers. Today’s form: prose poetry. Today’s device: assonance (Not present here. Not even remotely. :-))