My Mother's Hands

I hold a visual image of my mother's hands. I don't know why or when it occurred, but I do remember a day when I took notice of her hands. There are other things that I remember as
well, her laugh, the sound of her voice when she was angry with me. But there was one specific day when I took note of her hands. I may have been in my 20s or 30s - but there was something specific about her hands that drew me to them.

They were smooth and reddened. I imagined that perhaps they had no fingerprints left after the years of hard work and projects that she impinged upon. The skin appeared thin and fragile. At that point in my life, I did not realize all that she held within her hands and her heart. I did not realize the work that she had put into the family. I remember wondering if my hands would ever look like that. But that moment did not come to realization until about 5 years ago, as I stared down at the hands that lay on my lap.....they were my mother's hands.

I have been thinking about her a lot lately. I suppose with Mother's Day coming up, that makes sense. She died of pancreatic cancer (which is a topic for another day) at what I now know was the "tender" age of 68.

She had busy hands. She took time to refinish furniture, sew slipcovers, upholster, work in the garden, remodel the house, make jam, and pinecone wreaths. I remember going on walks to find wildflowers, cattails, and pinecones. Occasionally, she even tried to do her own home appliance repairs.

My mother was a strong woman. I miss her and I miss her laugh. Perhaps most, I miss her hands in action.