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Just woke up a few minutes ago.
Trying to get myself together to get my day going.

Fleeting memories of Amber’s hands pass through my peripheral vision.
They look rough from years of dishes.
She says they are scarred now
because she shoots up in her hands.

Those tiny little perfect hands
that look like generations of women’s hands in my family.
Our hands look like Momaw’s and probably her Momaw’s.
Long piano fingers everyone calls them
even though none of us play the piano.
Long fingers with perfectly shaped nails
that grow long and strong.

Hand model’s hands except for the wear.
Years of dishes
and babies
and husbands
and work show on our hands.
Every scratch,
every mark,
every healed cut has a story to tell
and now
Amber’s tell her story of addiction.

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