My Best Friend's Hands

          When I was in first grade I had my first best friend.  Myrth had fair skin, brown eyes, and light brown hair worn in long bouncy ringlets.  I spent my six year old school days with Myrth, sitting in the cool hallway playing Barbies or jacks, or running to the playground to jump rope or take a turn on the swings.  At lunch we sat together on wooden benches, talking and laughing while eating bologna sandwiches from wax paper bags.  Life was good.
          In addition to her ringlets, I was fascinated with Myrth's hands.  Her skin was so fair that the backs of her hands were often mottled with a faint lacy pattern.  I used to sneak peeks during the cool morning recesses and then compare them to my own tanned hands.  I wondered why mine never had the same pink pattern.
          At home one night after going to bed I woke up with a horrible stomach ache.  I began to cry and then got sick.  Mom heard me and helped me into the bathroom.  Daddy asked what he could do to help and Mom told him to hold my hand while she went in to clean up my bed.  Daddy reached for my hand resting on the toilet seat and that's when I noticed.  My hands had the same delicate pattern that I had occasionally seen on Myrth's.  I was sick but I was also thrilled.