Piano Fingers

Everyone said that Callista had inherited her mother's features, her large, full-lidded eyes, her glossy, golden locks, and most of all, her long, graceful fingers. "Piano fingers," her grandmother fondly referred to them. Long, skillful fingers were a family trait passed down through the ages.

Callista studied her small, slender fingers as she reflected on her grandmother's words. Her pink, heart-shaped lips pursed between two rosy, ample cheeks as she pondered her own genetic inheritance.

Across the yard, sitting heavily on the base of the porch, Callista's grandmother seemed lost in her own musings. Her tired eyes were cast despairingly to her skeletal hands. Her fingers, once supple and lithe like her granddaughter’s, were now brittle and inflamed with the degeneration of age.

Callista looked up from her own youthful fingers and carefully studied her grandmother. She couldn't believe that this woman, all haggard and worn, was once a vibrant young woman. The hollowness of her sunken cheeks and eyes suggested no sign of youth. She seemed so tired and dry, like a shriveling fruit with all of its juices drained. Yet, within this ancient old woman there was something beautiful that remained.

Her thin, wispy hair reminded Callista of the soft downy feathers of a pure white dove. The face within the light strands was thin and defined. Her high cheekbones were still touched with a hint of pink blush, and her forehead shined from the warm light of the sun. Her skin was dry and cracked like dead, autumn leaves. Her skin even took on the golden color of fall. Although her thin lips were set in a frown, deep lines had set around her mouth from the many years of laughter and frequent smiles she had shared with the ones she loved. Even in her sorrow, there was a beauty and dignity in her features. Callista noted the fullness of her eyelids, the same as her own. Age had not stolen the youth from her eyes. Her brows were so light they were nearly invisible and her sockets were dark and sunken, but the eyes themselves remained alive.

Callista followed her grandmother's sad gaze to the frail hands, one clasped lightly over the other. The long fingers were so delicate, and fragile white nails grew out like tiny extensions of her skeletal being. Callista could see the long years of abuse and use that these ancient hands had endured. In their frailty, the long fingers still remained strong and lithe "piano fingers."

"What is wrong, grandma?" The girl asked sweetly, coming to sit beside the hunched old maiden. She looked up into the dark eyes, tucked beneath two large lids. "Why are you so sad?"

"Look at these hands." Her grandmother's voice trembled sadly as she raised her boney hands from her lap. "Dried up like an old prune."

"No, grandma." Callista gently placed her small hands upon her grandmother's, and carefully lowered them back to her lap. She offered another comforting smile and she was pleased to see her grandmother grin back. Underneath the wrinkles, Callista could see where she had inherited her own smile. Callista gazed fondly at her ancestor's golden face and she truly believed that she was beautiful. She looked down again at her own hands, cupped softly over her grandmother's. "They are piano fingers."

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Note: I hope you enjoyed this short story. I got the idea from a writing website during a bout with writer’s block. The exercise was to find something ugly and to describe it in a way which would make it seem beautiful. So I found a photo of an ugly-yet-beautiful old woman.