Hanging in our upstairs bathroom is a hand print of our daughter when she was one. Or most of a hand print. The glue holding three of the fingers in place certainly helps
It’s just that five years ago, I’d gotten nearsighted on this hand print idea, and by golly we were going to have a hand print, even if I couldn’t read directions correctly. God bless America.
And we had a hand print. Only every finger had broken off except the middle one. Which was what I thought about the whole hand print kit anyway.
So, um…
There ain’t no plaster of Paris hand print of my son.
But we do have these. Fresh off the paint brush.
This is my daughter’s hand print turkey. I could smile a whole minute at the proportion of those turkey feet to that turkey. And at that speck of a waddle.
This is my son’s. His turkey has black feet. Or is wearing a skirt. I mostly like that its neck extends directly east from its body. And that it must eat with something other than a beak.
And these…the ones decked out in dresses because they can be…
be the ones who made them turkeys.
And the ones who own the hands I hope to hold a while longer.
I had a dream about sleep. . . 