What she remembers our little sausage fingers,
galaxies of paint and glitter dancing across Ivory Palm's.
Tiny hands grabbing giving,
all with their underneath nubby nails.
gears etched themselves into a child's hands or silver scars,
and with each passing season's time flew by and nails grew
and paint was replaced by Cherry varnish and filed tips,
and she continued to search for the dirty grubby hands she knew.
New yet familiar hands illuminated from behind,
by the glowing from car taillights,
and in the front glowing with lights from the,
rising Sun the last thing she remembers,
are those hands she grew up with,
and loved trailing out a sad car window
and slowly waving goodbye
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