My Mother's Hands

1.  Physical Experience
My mother has beautiful hands.
Baby-Bottom soft but not smooth= kind of wrinkly
same shape and size as mine
you can see all the tendons in her hands, like planted rows in a farm with blue veins watering between them.
Smell of simple green and a vigorous brushing sound as mom scrubs the tile


2. Scenes
I remember when my mom's wedding ring didn't fit anymore.  She couldn't get it off.  Her ting was gold like mine, with a diamond in the center.  Again like mine.  My dad lubed her finger up with butter and tried pulling, but when it wouldn't budge and her knuckle started swelling, giving her the "muffin top" look, he stopped.  Then he had a bright idea.  Floss.  Somehow he wrapped her finger really tight with floss and I remember panicking as my mom's finger turned red, then purple, then it was violently trying to pump blood, I could see the veins throbbing with motion.  She can't loose such a beautiful finger!  Not my mother's precious hands!  Finally it came off.

She has a new ring now.  This one isn't gold and has 3 diamonds instead of one.  She loves it and raises her last two fingers in a wave-like motion just so the light will capture the cuts of the diamond.  She is modest and this is the first time I have ever seen her show off anything.

3.  Speech
"I hate my hands.  They are so old and so ugly"  she said.  I protested in great horror.  "They are so beautiful!  Each wrinkle and spot have a story, an act of service."  I can't convince her to love her hands as much as I do.

Her running commentary as she plays marbles with her grandkids,  Or sculpts playdoh.  Or teaches them how to swim.  Or running around playing capture the flag- a game I taught them and implemented.  She is such a good sport for doing that.  Oh the laughter as her and my almost 70-year old aunt chased each other.  They were running at the exact same pace, my aunt in front as my mother chased her trying to reach out and tag her while strapping down her chest.... those pesky things always get in the way.  My dad couldn't contain himself. And preferred to be a bystander just so he could laugh.  My mom's hands to everything.

4. Emotion in the Moment
My hands and my mothers hands are the exact same shape and size.  Mine are just a younger version.  I love it.  I want my hands to do what my mother's hands have done.  I reverence her hands.  She is always serving, always doing something for someone else.  Her hands never rest.  The only difference between her hands and mine are the nails.  She has delicate, long, perfectly-curved nails.  I have never seen them any other way.  Mine are purposefully and stubbornly short. Never even and never filed.  I hack them off with nail clippers as soon as there is any white.  I play the violin with my hands and there is nothing worse or more annoying or ugly to me as long nails.  Except my mothers.  Only her nails can be long.  Only her long nails are pretty. I hope she keeps hers long.

5.  People of Consequence
 Everyone my mother serves is someone of consequence, at least to her.  Her first grandchild is a tribute to her- a miniature version of my mother in every way except for personality.  Bryten has spunk and sass where my mother is unfailingly sweet.  But Bryten's face is an exact replica of my mother.  It seems only fitting that the first grandchild would be so.  Bryten is even as flexible as my mother was- she could do the splits until I was born.  At age 33.    My dad has a mini-me grandchild as well.  Little Nash- who is the same as my dad in EVERY way.  Even his humor, his run, his grin. I think my mother secretly has an extra soft spot in her heart for him. She hold's Nash's hands in the same way she hold's my dad's hands.  A little extra tenderly.