These Hands

Anxiously pressed, and waiting by the phone, It's 11:05 pm, and the dark tunnel which leads from the kitchen to the library, is brightened by a tiny desk lamp. Work and worry form every line, tall, tough weather keep them dry, these hands once directed the fall fashion lines, from the highest towers in New York City, but now, they are at the mercy of one teenage daughter. "Weren't you ever as young or as carefree as me?" I ask emerging from the hall. Turning-arms free with relief she screams, "Why don't you ever answer your cell phone!"