You always said your hands were ugly. And I would ask why. And you would say “They’re so wrinkly.”

But I always thought they were so, so beautiful.

And the wrinkles were simply deep canyons, and steep mountains in your skin that served as reminders of your sixty-six years of service.

And down in those canyons, your flaws laid dormant, because you had a way of never letting them escape to the surface.

And on top of those steep mountains, you placed your family, letting them enjoy the view that you created, just so they could catch a glimpse of the world.

And you loved them with every ounce of life you had, even when they took your heart and tossed it off that mountain, countless times, and left you to pick up the pieces and sew them back together.

Time made you a phenomenal seamstress.

I just always wanted you to know that you were so, so beautiful. And you earned every single canyon and mountain that formed and resided in your skin.

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