Her mother’s hands were always cool.
True healer’s hands, they cradled feverish foreheads and soothed flushed cheeks. Agnes remembers tripping over the clumsy back step at three; the smarting pain and the blooming bruise bleeding onto her pink skin like a blot of purple-ing ink. Her mother was the only one who could quell the hiccuping, red-nose tears with her honey drenched words. One cool kiss to the wobbly-rosy smile would send Agnes off on her merry way, toddling precariously near to nettle-thickets and thorn-forests.
Always, standing like a sentry in the doorway, her mother would be in her sights.