“Catherine loved her mother’s hands, although they were not beautiful. Marjorie Blevins had hands that were too big for a woman of her slight stature, large hands all knuckle and gristle, skin raw from washing. When folks came to visit, Marjorie hid them in her apron pockets, kind of the same as how she’d hide her smile by turning her head and letting her hair curtain across her freckled face. Catherine watched her mother’s hands as they worked at all that washing, scrubbing skillets and diapers and floors, soaping themselves endlessly from daybreak into night. There was a strength, a certain grace, to their earthy choreography. Catherine watched as her mother cleaned and cooked, as she kept house. Catherine watched, and from time to time she would see one of those chafed red hands slow and stutter, fingers flickering and coming to rest for just an instant on the rim of the Mason jar she kept on the window sill above the kitchen sink. Marjorie Blevins kept a jar of molted cicada skins…”

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Never You Mind