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.

Irish Ned

Farming is messy! Locals cling to the old ways; Tractors and pranks pass the wet summers. Old greying Ned couldn't drive. Two young bored farmhands picked fun.

'Label the pedals,' Ned instructed. Laughing, the word 'brake' was put on the clutch and 'clutch' on the brake. After a struggle Ned called brusquely,'I'm going on the beer.' His men kindly laced the ale with castor oil. Walking like a duck Ned struggled to the gate and wasn't seen for two days.

In the field the wife cried, 'What did you do to my Neddy? The sofa and bed are ruined!'

From Guest Contributor Kerry Valkyrie Baldock Kelly