Sitting on my desk is a palm cross, and as I look as it I`m trying to imagine the hands that made it. Were they old, or were they young; were they male or female or maybe even a childs; where they smooth skinned or gnarled and twisted with the years. It looks to be so carefully made, so perfectly shaped, I imagine it being done with care and thought. How many miles has that cross travelled, how many people have touched that cross?
I wonder too if those who made them think about us and wonder about us in the same way, do they imagine the person who is going to hold that cross, and look at that cross that they`ve made.
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