She’s texting you with her hands.
The hands that held you as a helpless baby. The hands that fed you, taught you, caressed you, and loved you. The same hands that have grown thinner over the years, weaker, less coordinated.
The same hands that brushed your tears as quickly as they came. The same hands that brushed her own tears away, hidden from sight. Her hands that tremble on a cold night, because sometimes no one is there to warm them up.
The hands that swept you off the floor with joy when you two were together, with only each other. The hands that then swept the floor (among other things), because your potty training wasn’t all there. Her hands that get slower every day. Those hands that hold your old pictures, losing all other thoughts to memories of your face from birth to adulthood and into old age.
The hands that will lose their focus, becoming dizzy. Her hands that will forget themselves. Those hands that remember every time she embraced you. The hands begin to go as she begins to go, to some other strange place.
Cherish every moment those hands dance in memory of you, texting clumsily on the best phone that she could afford. Those hands have been there with you before you could even love, and those hands that will continue to dream of you until they can dream no more.