My Mother's Hands

Long fingers that looked like she should have taken piano lessons at some point in her life. Fair skin that required loads of sunscreen for anytime spent outdoors. Cool skin that always felt wonderful on a feverish head. Slightly bitten nails she would try to hide from others. These are my mother’s hands.

My mother’s hands are a direct extension of her heart. These hands held me when I was little. They shooshed me when I was upset. They held my hands tight keeping me safe. They would pull me away from danger or give a gentle push when I needed encouragement. They helped me hold books and handed me toys. They cleaned me and fed me. They would write me notes that found their way into my lunch box. They braided my hair and helped me tie my shoes. They wiped away tears and applauded me when I had done something good. They taught me to make clover chains and how to hand over a credit card.

These hands that raised me are now caring for the hands that raised them. Those hands now take care of my grandmothers silver hair. Those hands help my grandfather when he can’t get the batteries back into his remote. Those hands prepare their meals and do all of their shopping. Those hands help them do laundry and drive them to appointments. Those hands take care of their medicine and bills. Those hands care for my grandparents in the same loving manner they cared for me.

My son is lucky that he gets to feel the love of my Mother’s Hands. I watch them gently pick him up and caress his chubby cheek. I watch those hands gently pat his back and tickle his toes. I watch him fall in love with the owner of those hands, just as I did as a baby.

I hope one day my son will affectionately remember my hands as I remember my mothers. And should the day come that my hands have to take care of the hands that raised me, that they deliver the same love and care that they deserve.

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