Lilac colored nails, two rings, and a leather bracelet are on the hands of my Nonna. Her hands are so soft, but still tough, which is an effect from all of the hardships she went through. Every scar, wrinkle, and finger each have their own story to tell. As she squeezes my cheeks every time I come over, I can't help but remember some of the things that her hands have gone through.   

They are the same hands that used to make flower crowns with wildflowers from the open fields in Italy with the rest of her fellow orphans.

The same hands that used to spend hours upon hours sewing, hot gluing, and creating masterpieces to give us as presents, claiming that a present from the heart is better than anyone a store could provide.

The same hands that used to hold the same worn down bible every single day, since she couldn't afford to get a new one, but still never missed a day of scriptures.

The same hands that used to hold an Italian to English translator as watching sesame street with her first child to learn English.

The same hands that used to take care of my four uncles and dad as a single mother, after her husband passed away from a deadly heart disease.

The same hands that held and guided my five-year-old toddler hand as I tried to ice a vanilla cupcake with blue icing for my brothers birthday.

The same hands that held a passport, 300 dollars, and her husband's hand as she stepped off the ferry onto Ellis Island, unknown of this new land she landed on, or what the future holds.