A mother's hands

I will always be a little boy when it comes to my mother. I think there is nothing wrong with that. I am willing to bet all men, no matter how old they are, feel this way. I know my kids will always be my babies even when they are a little older. They will always be daddy’s girls.

I go to church every Sunday with my daughters. We sit next to my parents. I see my mother’s wrinkled hands as she touches mine to greet me. Her wrinkled hands bring back many childhood memories of those hands taking care of me, my brothers and sisters.

I could not help but notice my mother’s hands and what they have been through. What kind of life those hands have had. My six year old sat next to my mom at church. As I glanced over I noticed my six year old daughter playing with my mom’s wrinkled old hands. I see my daughter navigating the wrinkles and veins of my mother’s hands with her tiny little fingers. My six year old has the softest hands. When her hands touch my hands I feel like an angel is touching me. You can feel the soft little tap of her fingers. I’m not sure if my daughter knows that my hands will look old and wrinkly one day.

My mother’s hands at one time led a very privileged life. I am sure they were the most beautiful hands around. They were part of several elite social clubs. There, they danced the night away and held the finest wine and champagne.

Those hands also held me for the first time as a newborn. She carefully held me close to her chest. I was probably too young to know how safe I was. I was in the safest place any baby can be, in their mother’s hands.

Those soft caring hands have provided nourishment to me growing up. Those hands always provided food somehow and sometimes magically out of nothing. Times were always tough when you have a family of nine. Our bellies seemed to always be satisfied, she made sure of that.

Those soft caring hands sometimes wiped away tears when I fell or got stung by a bee. As tough as my mother may have seemed I occasionally saw her wipe tears from her own face with those hands. As a young boy you never know why.

Those hands even found time to take care of her husband during the good times and bad.

Today I look forward to visiting my mom on my days off and on weekends. I am comforted just by touching her wrinkled hands. I am also comforted by looking at her caring wrinkled face and can’t help but wonder how great her life has been. She has raised a fine group of men and women.

I look forward to the day when my own grandchildren sit next to me in church asking why my hands are old and wrinkly. I will tell them where my hands have taken me. Hopefully they will write a few lines about how my hands cared about them, fed and loved them.