Posted on the 6S Social Network 2Feb10
When my son was a newborn, he had a fascination with my hands. He would wrap a brand new, soft hand around one of my calloused, scarred fingers and hold on. Each scar on my hands has its own story; not all are bad, but most are. I have used these hands to love and comfort; to mend and fix; to hurt and kill. His hands have not felt the sting of rejection, nor the joy of love; bone cracking from a well placed blow, nor the feel of a soft caress among lovers. When he holds my fingers, I hope that somehow he is learning from my mistakes so he wont repeat my life.
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