Hands Tell a Story

Many reading this won’t know that I turned 40 this year. I don’t feel middle age but my complaints of age spots, wrinkles and grey hair won’t convince you otherwise!
Last week I spent some time helping Afghani women learn some new English words… “birthday” being one of them, since we were planning a birthday pot luck for the neighborhood. The conversation naturally lead to Fouziah asking me my age. “How old do you think I am?” She replied… “28”! I thought she was being kind but in truth Fouziah was being honest. As the conversation progressed, she told me through the help of an interpreter that she is 39. She has 7 children and is raising them on her own while her husband remains in Iran. “Life very difficult in Iran” she tells me and holds out her hands and motions for me to do the same. Our hands told their own story, the contrast was striking. I was humbled and ashamed of my vanity. “Not good, not good in Iran, very hard.” Wanting to avoid my own discomfort I say, “your smiles tell a different story, it is so beautiful.” The last word belongs to Fouziah, “I smile since coming to Canada, Canada very good, very good.”
Dee