Never did she dream her coarse hands—with grooves like bark—could one day bring comfort. Yet here she stands, holding close that bundle of silent joy. Which feels nothing but the dear embrace of the world.
At this moment, it knows not of the future pain, anger, wonder and unbridled joy it will experience. But she knows all too well, the pain they will feel together. When those moments come… She’ll fondly dream of this time… And that child who will grow… Will remember the warmth of the hands that could twist metal into a rose.
Never did she dream her coarse hands—with grooves like bark—could one day bring comfort. Yet here she stands, holding close that bundle of silent joy. Which feels nothing but the dear embrace of the world. At this moment, it knows not of the future pain, anger, wonder and unbridled joy it will experience. But she…
Lawrence Medina 
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