Happy Birthday Mami
She showed me a new cut on her already scarred, rough, and beat up hand. It was deep and infected. Not because a dirty weapon ripped her flesh, but because she always seemed to find herself too busy to stop and disinfect the gash. "I like your hands." I said to her. She didn't listen. "If I had your hands it would mean that I know how to do things." I said to her. She didn't listen. Instead, she wished aloud for prettier hands, delicate hands. She yearned for a manicure that would dissolve the need to work her hands to the bone in order to provide for her family. Instead, she got Bella's five-year-old five fingers adding five layers of whatever nail polish colors picked her fancy. Pink. Blue. Shiny. Purple. More pink. One thing is certain- my mother's multi-colored manicured hands can do anything. Her hands alter clothes. Her hands bake and decorate cakes. Her hands ...