by Abigail Green
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG8HfsYailbVfHB_uJnnEKUdrPZMSGI8xNWtEfpi7dnkAahnLcSygBSyo5SGUEJKwsK1c-UrQQfUQyEOtsvhWh9DiO-elTQq0-e5eEGROPFm-dr4Th7FjZcPcc1OCkE-gMc8oDRWeXoq8/s1600/Abigail+Green.jpg)
Hands full of stories, and ancestry, and possibility. I see them and remember who I'm from.Hands full of stories, and ancestry, and possibility. I see them and remember who I'm from. Mother hands — gentle & scarred — whispering of the prepared meals and wiped children tears. Father hands — calloused & sturdy— humming a melody of sacrifice and tree houses built.
Beginning a hashtag series on the buried brilliance in the hands of us all. Join in! #handslikethese
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