My Mommy’s Hands (Gabrielle)
I love my mother’s hands. I don’t know what they look like right now, but I can’t imagine them any more perfect than they were before she went Home. Her hands were calloused and hard. Her nails were short and usually had dirt underneath them. Sometimes she would stroke my hand and her skin felt rough. And I think her hands are the most beautiful I’ve seen. They were hands that served, created, caressed and comforted. I think about what my hands do throughout the day and then I multiply that by the twenty-six years she was a mother. How many diapers did she change? How many meals did she make and serve? How many baskets did she weave? How many sweaters did she knit? The list goes on longer than I can see. And all of these acts wore down her hands and marked themselves on her skin. I remember her hands and I can still see them inside a turkey or kneading some bread or planting seeds. Her hands carried memories of everything she did for her family. And that made them beautiful.
I look at my hands and I wonder what memories they carry. I wonder if they are fruitful. I wonder if they have done anything worth while. I feel my palms and I feel they aren’t as soft as they once were. If I want to feel something fine I put it against my cheek because my hands are getting calloused and rough. My aunt was telling me ways to soften my hands and I told her I didn’t want to. I want my hands to get rough and calloused because maybe, maybe then they would be as beautiful as my mother’s were.
I made my mom cry once when I wrote her a letter on her birthday telling her how much I appreciated the fruitfulness of her hands. I told her I hoped one day to have hands as lovely as hers. I still hold that hope. And as I wash dishes and change diapers I pray that my hands would carry the memory of these acts. And I pray that after twenty-six years my hands would be as beautiful as my mommy’s are.
I too, think about my mom’s hands alot. They revealed her great character.
Her hands were strong when I was weak, warm when I was cold, cool when I was feverish. I also suspect my spankings were responsible for some of the callouses! I’ve always said the secret ingredient in her meatloaf and stuffing recipes was the flavor imparted from her hands which she used to mix them. I suspect the fat from the ground beef was also a good moisturizer, because her hands were so soft to the touch.
She’s been gone from this earth for 10 years, but she’s never far from my thoughts.
There’s a story called “The Most Beautiful Hands” that I heard once. Alas I haven’t found it since. The tale was of a prince who sought his mother’s counsel before going out into the wide world to seek a bride. His mother told him, “Look for the girl with the most beautiful hands.” Of course after various adventures he finds and marries a poor, hard-working peasant girl whose hands are rough from toil.
My mother’s hands are beautiful, too.