The picture is not of my mother's hand.  It's a stranger's hand, an anonymous woman's palm pressed flat against a sea of grainy white-gray snow.  The fingers are gently stretched straight. Waves of wrinkles rise over knuckles, like maybe the joints feel a little slow and stiff of late. The nails are short and rounded – practical but well kept – and ever so slightly discolored in silent acknowledgement of mature age. Three tendons stand out in ridges on the back of the hand, a testament of strength. Against a background of tawny skin, roadmaps of blue-green veins crisscross, telling of all the places it's been.  The hand is held next to the imprint of a wild animal's foot – bear or wolf, I can't remember – to illustrate the awesome size and impact of nature. But it's not the paw I care about. I've cropped most of the footprint out of the picture like so many forgotten details.  I desperately want to hold that hand.  I want to reach through the