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…