My mother’s hands, once soft and delicate, touched her swollen belly while I grew inside.
My mother’s hands, always warm and welcoming, held me against her breast when I was newly born.
My mother’s hands, strong and encouraging, guided me as I walked through life.
My mother’s hands, both tender and firm, carried me when I couldn’t pick my broken heart up off the floor.
I’ve watched her hands change from youthful and soft to aged and worn. But her hands have always been open, ready to take my own in hers. She doesn’t often get manicures, and time has made her knuckles swell, but her hands are more beautiful now than they’ve ever been. Her hands show the story of her life; she has cared for all others before herself.
My mother’s hands are tough. My mother’s hands are loving. My mother’s hands are beautiful.
And as I age, I am beginning to see that my hands are changing too… just like hers.
They have held babies, led children, and are starting to carry others.
I am proud to have my mother’s hands.