A Mother's Hands

A Mother’s Hands

Have you heard about the new rejuvenating treatments for hands? Now brown spots, bulging veins and wrinkled fingers can be restored to their youthful appearance so that they won’t give your age away. Makes sense in a world of Botox and face lifts.  

I have noticed a change in my hands. More and more when I look at them, I see my mother’s hands. This doesn’t make me worry about aging though; I wonder if I will be worthy of such hands.

I remember my mother’s hands. I see them changing my baby brother’s diapers as he wiggled. I see them tickling his elbows and knees. I see them washing a mountain of dishes after feeding six hungry children. I see those hands washing faces, scrubbing knees, and brushing hair. I see them folded in prayer.  

I feel my mother’s hands too. I feel them patting my back when I choked on the penny I had so foolishly swallowed. I feel them soothing my arms and legs with cool water as I burned with fever. I remember the pull as she smoothed my unmanageable hair into the pony tails I’d begged for.  

Those hands held me close. They soothed my feelings and healed my hurts. They lovingly corrected my errors, taught me life lessons, and washed my socks. A mother’s hands teach her children about the world and love is their primary lesson.

I hope that my hands continue this legacy.

As I age, I wonder if I will see my grandmother’s hands. Her hands packed up meager belongings and immigrated to a new world. Her fingers embroidered beautiful tablecloths and handkerchiefs as she struggled to learn English and keep house for her brothers. Her hands made a home for her children in America. They worked long hours cooking in her husband’s restaurant and, when he became ill, those same hands worked in a chocolate factory, hour after hour, banging the frames to knock out the molded candy.  

I remember those hands cutting up zucchini and garlic, chopping carrots and celery, kneading the pizza dough and throwing it joyfully into the air, then expertly catching it. I watched them rolling the pasta-stick shaping each delicate piece. Her hands folded mountains of clothes, crocheted mittens and slippers, massaged aching muscles and pulled dandelions to cook for a special treat. Once, when I lay very sick, those hands spent hours chopping ice with a hammer to cool my throbbing throat.  

Of course I had two grandmothers. My father’s mother sewed beautiful clothes with her hands. She dreamed of sewing my wedding dress, but her hands fell still too soon. I still see those hands though, brushing the crumbs from the table, washing the greens in the sink, passing the pasta, weeding the garden, illustrating a story.
 

When I think of these things, aging hands seem a blessing. I wonder if other parts of me will come to resemble my mother. Will I develop eyes that see only good in others? Will my ears strain to hear the joy in the hearts of my children? Will my feet hurry to help and my arms yearn to carry the hurts away and surround those hurting with love?  Will my heart grow more tender and full?

My mother’s hands held my children too, and my children’s children now. They still comfort and caress. They still hold me close. 

They don’t look old to me.