The mother grasped the miniscule hand in her own. So light and the flesh so tender, wrought with clear-cut lines, streaming outwards like a crossroads.It is curious how those infant hands weigh of infinite innocence and a mother may wonder whose hands she is holding. Is it the palm of a teacher? The fingers of an artist she unfurls? Perhaps it is the skin of a murderer she caresses?
Who is this soul she cradles in the nook of her arms, sleeping so serenely? Softly, she sings a hymn, about God and his children and endless wisdom. Then she marks her son with the sign of the cross, to offer up his whole life as a glorious prayer. And only in his dying moment will he repeat this symbolic gesture. For every moment shall be a word in the endless prayer of his story.