Marks of Time

In the moments of reflection, we come to understand that time, with its relentless march, leaves its signature upon each of us. These marks, delicate and intricate, are the silent storytellers of our lives. Some are mere whispers, light and simple, noticed only by the discerning eyes that pause to see, to truly see. They tell tales of fleeting joys and gentle sorrows, of moments that brushed past us like a soft breeze.

Yet, there are other marks, deep and creased, etched into the very fabric of our being. These are the marks that lay bare our vulnerabilities, raw and unguarded. They are the scars of battles fought and the imprints of love lost and found. They speak of a destiny written in the lines of our palms, a destiny shaped by the hands that have touched us.

Caring hands, strong hands, hands that have held us in moments of need. Hands that have caressed our fears away, that have built and created, that have left an indelible imprint on our souls. These are the hands of memory, the hands that linger in the recesses of our minds, sometimes forgotten, yet never truly gone.

And among these hands, there are those of our mothers. The hands that first cradled us, that nurtured and guided us. The hands that, even in their absence, continue to shape our lives, leaving marks that time can never erase.

? Beatriz Esmer