Mother wondered who had thought to make the first hand print turkey, and if whoever it was could have guessed at the generations of American children who would follow, crafting silly little birds made special by the nature of their bodies, the shape of the maker's tiny hand captured forever on a scrap of paper. The best ideas are simple genius.
Pigeon had been more interested in the project than she'd anticipated, spreading eager fingers to be traced as Mother had done decades before, when her own hands were smaller. In between, she'd traced the little hands of other children in Sunday schools and classrooms, crafting treasures for other families, waiting for her own little bird to land in her lap, perch at her table, and show a little interest in scissors and glue.
And now he was here. The proof was sent with a stamp to loved ones here, and there. An imprint, a name, a date to remember: Once you were this small, she might say, years later. Once, my hand was biggest. He might laugh in return, think her silly and sentimental. At least until he had a Pigeon of his own.