One Sunday, I visited my mother. I found her sleeping, evident that a few tears flew out of her eyes and rolled down her cheek. She moaned a little, and so I held her hands.
Hers are crooked showing her real age. Her knuckles are puffy, and there are wrinkles and webs between her fingers. My mother has real ugly old hands. I massaged them, and slowly, a series of memories played in my mind.