My favorite part of her body is her hands.
The skin is soft and translucent on the top, you can see her muscles and tendons pulling away vigerously. Freckles dance on the surface. Her palms are tough and strong, callused pads. She bites her nails down to little stumps, but there is always enough there to have a bit of dirt stuck underneath. Long and boney fingers extend from the large base of the hand, these hands are power and skill.
I can't ever remember her not having something on her hands: paint, dirt or food.
She wears only two rings. Her wedding band, simple gold. Her greatgrandfather's gold emerald ring. A massive magestic pinky ring. I don't think she can take either off over her knuckles.
With her hands she can do anything.
She can be so gentle, just to have her hands on your back you feel better.
I remember once when she was kneeding dough.
She picked up the mass and tossed flour all over our cutting block table. She said she would show me first. It's all in the wrist, she said. Fold, press, fold, press, fold, press.
The entire table began rocking with her body, back and forth. Quickly she would reach for more flour without breaking rhythm. She looked as though she could push the entire table through the ground. I wondered how she could hold so much strength in her hands. She made the dough spread across the table without a rip.
Then she made me get up and try. I could barely fold the dough, it kept coming undone. Then when I would kneed it, it would not go evenly, it would rip, it would not come together.
She got behind me and put her hands on mine. I let go of control. She kneeded with my hands with so much power it almost hurt. She showed me how to be sure to get the dough flatend without a rip, how to blend the folds, how to add the flour. My palms were sore by the end.
She puts the entire weight of her body into her hands. She puts all her love into her hands.