# 201
Do you remember your Mother's hands? It has been 43 years since I have seen my father's hands, but I have a clear memory of them. I know exactly what they looked like upon a piano. And, yes I remember my 91 year old Mother's hands. They'd lost their precision, they shook, gnarled worse than an old apple tree. But still the hands of an intentional woman.
My hands look more like my father's. They are wide and square, my little finger long. They are good hands, they are best at holding loved ones.
How is a sundog made? It is a rainbow in clear skies, so there must be moisture in clouds nearby. The texture in the sky is like a Japanese painting A zigzag cloud, grey between the sun setting and the sundog growing brighter; a zipper rainbow. There are no birds soaring across this open sky.
My hands are the color of my Mother's, a brown, my father's skin was whiter, dark hair across his knuckles, everything almost untidy. They were strong and held the memory of sonatas in them. In angry bursts they slammed down on something, his final intentional act.
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