When I was about six years old, I would lie in bed, falling asleep as I gazed at the dark green maple leaves pushing against my bedroom window screen. Each leaf was just the size of a hand—so many hands, all gesturing in the breeze, saying more things than I could keep track of. I remember gazing at my mother’s hands as she sewed a patch on a pair of corduroys. The veins on her hands—the veins on those leaves: the pattern was not lost on me. This is a world with something to say. My mother’s hand darted up and down so quickly that I was terrified of her needle, but I couldn’t get myself to back away. She never did make a mistake: the needle went where her hands wanted it to go, briskly mending until the cloth was whole again.
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