I watched her from about one shoulder length away. We were in a crowd and she stood in front of me. She was a thin black woman probably about my age. Her hair had been intricately braded with large swells of hair gathered up and twisted until it seemed she had a current of lazy rushing water pouring down and around her head.
She had eased her way through the crowd and juggling large bundles she had managed to get into position just in front of me. She took off her coat and though it was still a rather cool spring evening, the many bodies standing around had produced a small cloud of warmth. Her packages settled at her feet and her hands now empty she began to play with the peeling cuticles on her fingers. She looked down at her jacket strewn across her bundles and seeing that the frayed cuff on one of the sleeves was visible to the public’s eyes, she quickly turned the sleeve over and returned to the business with her fingers.
She stood in front of me for only a few minutes and then she took up her jacket and bundles and once again made her way back through the crowd to deal with whatever business she had for the remainder of the day. But I had captured her hands with my small digital camera and though I had focused on her fingers I’ll probably remember how she had not wanted anyone to see her frayed jacket sleeve. There was great dignity in her posture and her face and hair, but her hands were those of a hard workingwoman. I will not make up a story about her life, but there was a story in there, of that I am sure. I’ll let you look at her hands and you tell me the tale.
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