Hands

Years ago, men stood against the old bank on Main Street. On warm, sunny days I casually watched as they visited. Their eyes each told a story— a story of hardships. A story of struggles. A story of survival. A story of relatives and friends now long gone. Their hands emphasized their stories. Weathered hands. Tired hands. Brown hands. Hands…

The Braid

I am made of hundreds of strands of hair. Each strand resilient, beautiful, unique. Each strand the colors of the earth. Each strand illuminated by the sun. Each strand cleansed by the rain. Each strand shaken by the wind. Like the people who wear me, I am strong. My strength is found in the strands gathered to make a plait….