My Mother's Hands
http://www.webarticles.com/My-Mothers-Hands/a10850_1
Lisa Lacey
By Lisa Lacey
Published on 04/27/2009
We spend our lives overlooking the small conveniences and we often take them for granted. This is a story about reflection. It's a story about taking a moment to remember the past and acknowledge the simple luxuries we're offered daily.
My Mother's Hands
When I was a child my mother's hands were very busy. They spent many hours cooking meals and scrubbing dishes. I would stand on a chair next to my mom and take the soapy plates from her hands and dip them in the clear water before stacking them beside the sink.
My mother's hands were always busy wiping away tears and applying bandages to scraped knees. I can vividly recall sitting on a chair with my arm extended as my mother's hands gently spread antibiotic cream over a fresh cut on my finger. I examined the differences between my dimpled smooth hand to her older more mature hand as she placed the band aid on my cut.
Her hand is what I would grab hold of when I didn't want to get lost, feared the dark, needed support, or wanted a friend.
As I aged, so did my mother's hands. Not needing to be used as a guide anymore, they began turn pages of books again. They began to knit, crochet and garden. I distanced myself from her hands as I grew and as a result, they began to age and wrinkle.
Time passed and before long my mom was again using her hands to cradle babies. Grandchildren would busy the hands of a woman who craved the ability to nurture. Once again, small hands were looking for guidance, a light in the dark, support and a friend. She was able to provide all of that and more as her hands got busy knitting sweaters and turning the pages of picture books for the next generation.
The grandchildren began to grow as well and my mother's hands continued to age. Small spots began to form on the top and the skin started to darken around the nails but still they remained busy wiping tears and applying bandages.
Only a small amount of time would pass before my mom became very ill.
Suddenly, those same hands would wipe away her own tears and search for another looking for comfort and reassurance. I held her hand, now older and weaker. The skin seemed loose and it didn't seem as powerful as it did when I was a child.
No time would pass and I would find myself holding my mother's hand for the last time. A hand that wouldn't hold back as I squeezed tightly and said goodbye. Hands that would no longer offer guidance as my tears showered them. Hands that would allow these tears to fall without wiping them away. Hands that would remain still as my heart bled for a bandage that only they could provide.
Hands that I would never see again.
Time passed and I took my children to the park. We walked through the summer grass as my youngest daughter ran up to me and grabbed my hand. She held up our hands together and said, "Look how much bigger your hand is than mine!"
I glanced down and my vision blurred as tears began to form at the sight of my mother's hand.
My mother's hands were always busy wiping away tears and applying bandages to scraped knees. I can vividly recall sitting on a chair with my arm extended as my mother's hands gently spread antibiotic cream over a fresh cut on my finger. I examined the differences between my dimpled smooth hand to her older more mature hand as she placed the band aid on my cut.
Her hand is what I would grab hold of when I didn't want to get lost, feared the dark, needed support, or wanted a friend.
As I aged, so did my mother's hands. Not needing to be used as a guide anymore, they began turn pages of books again. They began to knit, crochet and garden. I distanced myself from her hands as I grew and as a result, they began to age and wrinkle.
Time passed and before long my mom was again using her hands to cradle babies. Grandchildren would busy the hands of a woman who craved the ability to nurture. Once again, small hands were looking for guidance, a light in the dark, support and a friend. She was able to provide all of that and more as her hands got busy knitting sweaters and turning the pages of picture books for the next generation.
The grandchildren began to grow as well and my mother's hands continued to age. Small spots began to form on the top and the skin started to darken around the nails but still they remained busy wiping tears and applying bandages.
Only a small amount of time would pass before my mom became very ill.
Suddenly, those same hands would wipe away her own tears and search for another looking for comfort and reassurance. I held her hand, now older and weaker. The skin seemed loose and it didn't seem as powerful as it did when I was a child.
No time would pass and I would find myself holding my mother's hand for the last time. A hand that wouldn't hold back as I squeezed tightly and said goodbye. Hands that would no longer offer guidance as my tears showered them. Hands that would allow these tears to fall without wiping them away. Hands that would remain still as my heart bled for a bandage that only they could provide.
Hands that I would never see again.
Time passed and I took my children to the park. We walked through the summer grass as my youngest daughter ran up to me and grabbed my hand. She held up our hands together and said, "Look how much bigger your hand is than mine!"
I glanced down and my vision blurred as tears began to form at the sight of my mother's hand.