I was looking at my hands today on the bus and realized that my hands are just like my mom’s. They are thin and veiny and looking somewhat old. Like her hands.
I remember her hands when I was little and we were in church. I used to push her veins up and down making the lumps disappear for a second or two and then watching them fill up and turn blue again. I would do this for the whole hour we sat in church. I remember looking at her hands and mine and noticing how old hers looked and how smooth mine looked. I remember her knuckles and her clear coated nails. I remember thinking that my hands would never look like that because she’d had a hard life and had to work so much with her hands and that was why they looked so
old.
I remember her hands as they cupped her face when she sat at the counter late at night and cried and cried over bills she couldn’t pay. I remember her hands when she handed me back my journal after she’d given it to our church leader to read because I’d left it open and she’d seen cuss words in it.
I remember her hands when she dished out dinner right onto the countertop because my sister and I hadn’t done the dishes in three days and there was no clean plates or silverware. I remember her hands when she covered her mouth as she started laughing. I remember her hands the day I got married and each time I had a child.
I remember her hands as she held mine the day I walked into my lawyer’s office to sign the divorce papers and then held me when we got home and stroked my hair as I cried and cried at the loss of my marriage.
And I remember her hands when she came to visit the last fall, another ten pounds lighter then when she’d left and I remember watching my daughter sit with her and play with her hands, pushing the veins up and down and up and down.
Last night, while I lay in bed recovering from my flu my oldest son was sitting next to me, stroking my hands and moving my veins up and down watching the lumps disappear for a second or two and then watching them fill up and turn blue again. He said, “Mom, your hands are just like Nana’s.” And I laughed. Because I knew it wasn’t true.
I thought they would never be like her hands because I wouldn’t have a hard life and I wouldn’t have to work as much as she did. I knew my hands would never look old like hers.
But today on the bus while I was reading my book, my gaze was drawn to my hands. And they do look just like her hands. They are getting older, they are thin and they are veiny and they remind me of my mother. They remind me of her hard life and how in many ways my life has mirrored hers. My hands have rocked babies, changed diapers, cleaned floors and dishes and my hands have raised children and loved and touched and tickled and soothed. My hands are her hands and one day my daughter’s hands may look just like mine and my mother’s.
Looking down at my hands today I realized that no matter what, we age, we get older, seconds turn into years and today, just today, I realized that I have my mother’s hands.
I originally wrote this on February 2, 2007.
I am currently raising money for the Portland, Oregon Walk to End Alzheimer’s in August 2018. I raised almost $900 last year and this year my goal is at least $1000. This badge tells you where I am at right now in my efforts. If you feel so inclined, please donate. Thanks.