My hands looked so much like my Mother's hands. Mom always referred to them as "meat hooks", and then she would laugh. I remembered, as a young girl, how I wished for hands that were long and slender. I wished for hands that looked like what I imagined an artist's hands to be like. I wanted feminine hands; hands that looked beautiful in pretty rings; hands that looked nice it bright red nail polish. But I never got them. I had my mother's hands
As I stared at my large, aging hands, I began to remember my mother's touch. Mom had the softest skin. When I was little, she would stroke my cheek when I was sick. Her hands felt like smooth silk against my skin; cool and comforting. When I woke in the middle of the night, it was Mom's hands that rubbed the cramps out of my legs. And it was Mom's hands that chased away the little green men, that lived under my bed, and only came out at night to nibble at my toes. Mom's hands dried my tears when I was sad, they mended cuts and scrapes, and they zipped the zipper on that little beige dress with the fur color that I wanted so much.
My mother's hands made the best meatloaf I ever tasted. They made potato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches for me, in the winter, when I came in from playing in the snow. They made hot chocolate and showed me the art of dipping toast in it without getting too many crumbs in the cup.
Mom's hands painted beautiful landscapes and portraits. They mended doll clothes and once took porcupine quills out of a black Lab. Those hands taught me to cross the street safely, to tie my shoes and to button the buttons on my coat. Her hands showed me how to embroider pillowcases and hankies, how to use a wringer washer without getting a hand stuck and how to put on lipstick without making a mess.
It was Mom's hands that taught me how to catch lightening bugs without squashing them. It was her hands that slipped the lost tooth from under my pillow and replaced it with a quarter. It was my mother's hands that showed me how to fold my own hands in prayer.
It was my mother's hands that patted the bottoms of all my children as she sang to them and rocked. It was Mom's hands that colored pictures and played checkers with them. Mom's hands tidied up after them when I was gone, and it was her hands that clapped loudest at their birthday's.
I don't think I have ever felt anything so soft and reassuring as my mother's hands. Mom had a stroke five months before she died. She forgot people and places and she couldn't remember many of the things that she had done throughout her life. On any given day, she was often confused about who she had seen and what she had done. The day before she died, she couldn't talk anymore and she couldn't open her eyes. But when I took her hand in mine and told her I loved her, she gently squeezed mine back three times. "I love you," she said with those wonderfully soft hands. "I love you."
Someone told me recently, that even the parts of us that we aren't especially fond of, are parts of other people who were here before us. Maybe we don't like the way our nose looks, or our hair or ears or legs. But, they are parts of all the great people in our background.
As I look at my hands now, I don't see them quite the same way. I see the hands of someone I loved dearly. I see the hands of someone who loved me with all she had. It's true. We ARE the sum of all the people who have gone on before us. We are the end result of those people we loved.
I have my mother's hands.
