Prompt: standing on a corner in Winslow,Arizona/ and I'm quite sure I'm in the wrong song - Tori Amos, "In the Springtime of His Voodoo"/focus on/fetishization of hands
Hands had always fascinated her. She loved to watch a mother slowly stroke her baby's back, urging the child to drift off to sleep. She'd stop in her tracks to watch a father boosting his son up onto the monkey bars. Hands—big and small, gentle or rough—they touched everything—they were such a big part of life—and a big part of childhood.
She can't help but long for the safety that comes from a parent's hands…can't help but long for memories that just don't exist. She looks at those hands, those parents, those families and she knows she doesn't belong to one, she often thought she never would.
But now she knows that isn't true. She watches Don's hands, big and strong, gentle but firm, pick up their daughter and blow on her belly. Her beautiful daughter, Ella, giggled with glee, her hands smacking her father's face. Her brunette curls bounced as Don tossed her over his head.
"Daddy, toss….Daddy, toss," Ella cried as her father threw and caught her.
She smiled at the picture they made and then felt her heart swell as both of them, her husband and her daughter, reached their hands out towards her.
And she went, cuddling against them in a place she finally belonged.