The wax is warm as I press my hand into it. Warm and soft, sensual, forgiving.
Miss A tells me to hold my hand still, so I do, waiting patiently, a good girl.
When she says I can remove my hand, I pull it from the wax, cooler now, harder.
Then I skip off to the sandbox, or maybe the easels with their dull, powdery poster paints. Am I there when they pour the plaster? I don’t remember.
But a few days later I come home with a plaster casting of my hand print, which hangs in my parents’ bedroom for years.
[scs_alt]
PS — Pssst! Know someone who might benefit from seeing this today? Pass it on!
