ABSTRACT
They are fists now. Coiled in oblivion or defiance of all they were in life, they rest against her middle. Like her larger limbs, brittle, twiglike, they retreat more and more into an infantile posture. I take the right hand and set it on the tray attached to the wheelchair and, one by one, straighten each digit. Then those of the left. Before they can curl shut again, I slip a bean-bag against their underside, run its pebbly texture along the palms, anchor them open. The skin is close to transparent, a glove of exquisite sheerness. The balls of my own fingers knead the tiny wrinkles, the only parts of her that move effortlessly. The nails are safely clipped; the index fingers are bent inward in the old way. I look at these hands, my mother’s hands, and I remember….
