My Mother's Hands
My Mother’s Hands
I remember a quick moment in my 20’s
I was getting ready for my first “big girl” job halfway across the country from my childhood home.
I looked down from my reflection in the mirror and the hands I saw were not my own.
There attached to my 20-something-year-old body I saw with certainty my Mother’s hands.
So vivid it shocked me I quickly raised my hands to inspect them thoroughly. It’s not possible my mind raced, and after looking them over for a few good minutes, the feeling faded and my hands were just hands again.
Now, In my late 30’s I have accepted my hands as they are. They have changed to resemble the hands of my mother more so now. Any denial that once was, has found itself drowned by a pool of appreciation that has poured over my vision and opened my eyes.
Of course, I have my Mother’s hands...
I have birthed two children of my own. These hands have given many baths, rocked little souls to sleep, fixed countless boo boos, and helped to create many memories.
Today, I look at my hands, and my vision blurs as tears of gratitude well in my eyes.
I have my mother’s hands.
She arrives at my home to watch my babies now two years old and eight. I find my eyes falling on her hands. “Wait” the voice in my head says as my mind compares the many differences I see in our hands up close.
Then it hits me. A warm wave of emotion washes through my body cresting in a smile that breaks slowly across my face.
My cheeks raised and still, every moment reinforcing what is to become beautifully defined smile lines.
Maybe someday I will be lucky enough to have the hands of a Nana.
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