My Mother’s Hands

Central Massachusetts

I can picture nearly every detail of my mother’s hands. Her long, slender fingers. The shape of her nails. The freckles sprinkled across her olive skin. I can picture her knuckles and the faint lines of age that scatter like rivers of time across the once smooth surface.

I think of all the work those hands have done. The work of six babies brought into the world. The work of home and business and life beside. The sinks of dishes and the babies bathed. The gardens tended; the meals prepared. The paint brushes and flutes held and brought to life by the touch of those hands. The babies (and toddlers, and children, and teens, and adult children, and grandchildren) held and soothed by the touch of her hands. My father’s hands in hers; my father’s heart in her hands.

I look at my hands now and I see the hands of my mother – long, slender fingers, freckles sprinkled across olive skin, the faint lines of age scattered like rivers of time. The work of two babies brought into the world. The work of home and business and life beside. The sinks of dishes and babies bathed. The gardens tended; the meals prepared. The words tapped out or bled in ink across the page. The babies (and toddlers and children) held and soothed by the touch of my hands. My husband’s hands in mine; his heart in my hands.

I remember when I first noticed how much my hands look like my mother’s, and it bothered me. The way time and age show in the freckles and lines of my skin. For a moment, I just wanted to be younger and smooth-skinned again.

But then I think about how much I love my mother’s hands – how I love them all the more for the lines and wrinkles. The image of her hands speaks love, comfort and strength. The age in her skin testifies to years lived, loved, and offered up. Her hands, the hands that held me first in this world. My own hands, still so busy with the work of motherhood. Every line and freckle, a testament to time, to use, to love given.

I wonder if my children will remember my hands – and what they will think of if they do. Gentleness? Strength? A cell phone? What will the work of my hands represent in their memory? I hope, like my mother’s gentle hands, the memories are sweet. And when I look at my aging hands now, I do not mind that they remind me of my mother.