My Mother’s Hands

I think that a person’s hands say a lot about them. Are they soft, rough, calloused, wrinkled, smooth? Are they small and fragile and young? Are they older and wisened by age?

My hand’s are my Mother’s hands. She is much smaller than I am, I always feel I tower over her, like Fiona Ogre from Shrek; but when we lay next to each other and place our hands palm to palm, they match. It always surprises me, I don’t know why, I am a part of her, after all.

Her hands have come together to work, pray, soothe, cradle, hug, hold, love, garden, read, cook, bake, clean, guide two little girls into womanhood and so much more. Her hands are always soft and tender and cool and when they are on me, all is right with the world.