Hands

My mother's hands frail and worked. Her crepey paper fingers and running rivers of lines pass along the hilly blue mounds of veins. Many cultures stand proud of ages proof as it displays wisdom, strength—a life lived. Honored one should be of the achievement—living.

What do they know?

I watch as these hands perform tasks, ones they always have, no longer recognizing them. They are not my mothers anymore; they are mine. The words wisdom—a life lived whisper at my ear, and I try to catch them in the wind. These hands—I want to obliterate them.

From Guest Contributor Dianne C. Braley

Dianne is a nurse freelance writer and blogger from Hamilton, Massachusetts.

Displacement

Love at first sight, different people from different cultures.

Driving my Pajero along the rugged coastline of Mayo. A fortnight I had lived in Ireland. Banished for my own safety; a key witness in court against something dark, dangerous. Displaced from my family for doing what was right, exiled into the night. The previous eve I lost myself in similar lanes, crying.

In daylight the shadows dispersed. He was in his tractor, he belonged, descendant of families forever etched in the Irish soil. Appointed by chance as my gardener, meeting by fate. I never once doubted. Three years married. Aliens.

From Guest Contributor Kerry Valkyrie Kelly