There are hands that hold her. And feed, and bathe, and medicate, and comfort her. Hands that fawn over her, tweak her toes, caress her cheeks, stroke her hair. There are hands that create a circle of love around her, hands that put her in the center, the heart of it all.
There are hands that belong to people for whom it is easy to imagine life stretched out before her instead of shriveling behind. Hands that will not raise high on a roller coaster with hers, that will not stroll around the block in hand with hers. Hands that will not guide her growing up, and will not shape her future. Hands attached to lives that have, however, been shaped by her.
These hands belong to her grandparents and aunts. These hands belong to her.