Today, while I was making the dough for our dinner, I looked down and I saw my mother’s hands.
Mom, my hands look like yours.
I remember, as a child, standing beside you as you kneaded bread dough for the family. Your strong hands moving in rhythmic motions while you talked to me.
When we would be out, walking somewhere and your hand would rest on my shoulder. I’d glance over and see your hand there and feel safe and secure.
Coming to you in righteous indignation over some wrong my brother had committed and you’d stand there folding laundry. The crisp even lines emerging from chaos as each neat shirt was ironed, the towels were folded, and the sheets snapped.
I’d watch you pulling dead foliage off the plants, using your thumb to test if they needed a water; using your hands to grow some of the most beautiful plants.
At the table I’d watch as you picked up a simple pencil and drew amazing drawings, although infrequently. I remember squirrelling away a few of those drawings.
When I was sick, it was reassuring to feel your cold hands touch my forehead. A sign that things were going to get better soon. I felt safe.
Your hands got dirty.
Then your hands were clean.
Your hands were firm.
Then your hands were soft.
Sometimes I wished a little less firm.
Yet as I remembered back in that moment today what I saw was your hands. Then I glanced back at my hands, grateful for the blessing that now my hands look like yours. I just pray I can bless my children with my hands the way you blessed me with yours.
I love you Mom.