Background Info: In English we've been reading The House On Mango Street by Sandra Cisneros. As a creative writing project we had to write a vignette based on the vignette "Hair" in the novel (one of my favs). Cisneros uses hair as a metaphor for the narator and her family members' various personalities. We had to emulate her writing style while writing this vignette.
Reviews are loved :)
Everyone's hands are different; some are rough, some are soft, some are big, some are small. Nails painted, nails bitten down to the stubs, nails groomed and cleaned. A person's hands are a window into their soul.
My step-dad's hands are big; it's like they have a mind of their own. They appear rough but as you go over the calluses you feel the warmth, the softness. My hands however are small, with nails as colorful as arainbow. They stay the same. Never grow, never shrink, nails never grow. The only thing that changes are thecolors. The colors, a window into my soul.
My sister's hands are tiny, like soft fancy caramels crafted with love and care. Fragile as if the caramel was sitting in the sun, absorbing everything around it. So fragile.
My mom's hands. Made of pure comfort, pure memories. Long skinny fingers, chubby knuckles. Long nails, solid colors shining in the light of the lamp beside her. When you touch her hands you instantly feel calm,as if they were draining you of your pain. Draining away your sadness. They re always there, always as if they were waiting to work, waiting to help. Always waiting.