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280 Year Old Hands
They must have toiled a lifetime in labours unknown to us; lifted and buried, held tightly to another, caressed a troubled brow, clenched themselves in love and anger and pain. For two hundred and eighty years the strength under the velvet-folds has been the binding of families, the building of worlds.
Anne Branch’s “delicate mercies” live in them; even callouses cannot ungentle a mother’s hands. Here, in rest and repose, aged and beautiful, they are not stories but anthologies. It is all here, hands in the gestures of our humanity: we are givers and takers and gatekeepers.
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