I stare at her. Her wrinkles, her hand, and even what you may call clothes. I see her two twins. their bowl cut dreadfully ragged. The boy's faces i do not see, for they are cuddled in the safety that mother tries to provide. i grow curious for their true faces and what they have become over the years. i look at their situation. i look again at mother. i do not focus on the wrinkles, or the hand, but the feeling in her eyes that is holding back. she never wanted this for the kids. she never wanted this at all. her eyes are strong and powerful, but weakened from grief and remorse. i look down to her left hand. it is covered by a baby boy splattered with the dirt they call home, but no tears. in the edge of my sight, i see a log. just a log. i look one more time at their situation. i grow fond of her hand, the way it is placed on the face, the feeling, and pressure made on the stressed body. was her hand cold? was this hand support in a time of need?