These hands

             The wet snow clung to my soaked, pink gloves. Dad smiled and offered me his big hunting gloves but I pursed my lips and shook my head; they weren’t pretty. I let the screen door slam behind me as I walked over to the fire and pulled off the gloves. My hands would have been as warm if I had no gloves at all. At least then they would have been dry. 

             I had to go to the bathroom but I wasn’t about to use that out-house half buried in snow. I’d have to wait until we got home. Currently Mrs. Lewis was standing over the fire with me telling me all about her childhood. I smiled and nodded occasionally but otherwise paid no attention. She was the only person in the room who didn’t remember the story from five minutes before.

            Then for a moment, she stopped talking and looked at my hands. They were bright red from cold and I was still shivering. So she promptly took both my small hands in hers and held them closer to the fire while rubbing them for friction.   

             I was very surprised; not by her actions, but by the hands themselves. They were large, rough and strong. She was shorter than me by inches, though I was only twelve and very thin, but her hands weren’t frail; come to think of it, neither was her character.

            These hands had raised children and grandchildren with switch and gentle touch. These hands had roped cattle and held newborn babies. These hands had helped build the cabin where I stood; and now they were warming mine. Written on her hands was the story of her life.

My first winter in Montana