I love caring for my mother’s hands.
Those hands that lifted me when I was a child, the same hands that held mine when I was a young girl of 6 or 7, the same hands that held my fathers when he was recovering from surgery, the same hands that held me after my illnesses and rough times.
My mother’s hands are not dainty or “pretty” but they are strong and handsome. My mother’s hands have carried heavy loads and caressed my hair whenever I needed it. My mother’s hands are not delicate, they are warm and firm and loving.
She grabs my hand when I am unsafe and holds my hand when I need comfort. Every chance I get, I hold my mother’s hands. Her hands reassure me and lead me in the right direction.
I love caring for my mother’s hands, and secretly hope that mine will be just as accomplished and strong as hers.
I see my mother’s hands in my own, as I see her mother’s in hers. The cycle continues and connects us all.