13. Hands
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13. Hands
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A micro narration in a minute or so.
TRANSCRIPT
I envy all those women sitting together on trams, mothers and daughters, pushing prams and carrying bags, laughing and talking secrets. We never shared secrets, my mother and I, but I am living abroad and I miss her nevertheless. I see her in her best dress, walking beside me, the handbag crossed over her chest, silver hair and wrinkles. I think my mother is proud of me, somehow, but she’s never told me - feelings are not a merchandise easy to exchange in my family. She didn’t go to school, but I remember her sitting with me at the kitchen table, asking a student who lived next door to teach her how to solve equations, to be able to help us with the homework. She is always hiding her hands, ashamed of them, deformed by arthritis.
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