It seems she’s discovered my hands. She takes one in her own two hands and spins it around, gnaws on the knuckle of my thumb then on her own thumb knuckle. These are mama’s hands, I tell her. One day you’ll get big and your Eva hands will be big like mama’s. I tell her all we can do with our hands: write poems and do dishes and wave, make snowballs and meatballs and touch waterfalls, and if you hook your thumbs like this, and spread your fingers wide, you can make a bird, I say. Pick flowers, say grace. I could go on for days; it’s as if I too have just discovered my hands.