Her hands were dark, even more so when juxtaposed against mine, like when you put a dollop of cream on black coffee.
Her hands were covered in tiny imperceptible lines, interspersed every now and then with protruding veins in various shades of blue.
They quivered ever so slightly, and you’d think that she would fumble when holding, say, her pen or her eating utensils. But no. On the contrary, she was deft in handling her tools, even the more intricate ones, like a nail nipper, where one wrong move or a single miscalculation of the angle could result to blood spurting from your fingers.
I would admit that her hands weren’t a pleasant sight — dirt and grit often lurked under her fingernails. Not to mention that her skin was perpetually marked with dried Merthiolate and nail polish.
But the moment she grasped your hands between hers, you knew magic would soon take place, and that, in less than an hour, your horrible nails would be a magnificent piece of art.
At least I know — I’ve seen the old woman perform spells ever since I was a little girl, and since then, I yearned for the time when I’d see the transformation transpire on my lanky hands.
Decades later, she still visits us, looking exactly the same as she did when I was younger, wizened, her back arched, her fingers grimy, her hands tremulous —
Almost as if she were ageless.
Maybe she did have some sort of magic in her, after all.
