MidnightOrangeBlog

My Mother’s hands.

The hands of a journalist, a wife, a friend.

As strong as spider-silk, yet as soft as the muzzle of a newborn foal.

Weathered as The Lighthouse of Alexandria, you see, my Mother is both the port and the storm simultaneously.

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These hands have held me, fed me, and pushed me away.

There’s a power that only they have.

Innocence like the darling buds of May.

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They filed for my adoption.

Kissed my first scar.

Pulled together my self-worth when those mean girls dropped my heart.

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My Mother’s hands have been stung by the biting juices of Scicillian lemons.

Their veins protrude, damson-hued, like the Andean mountain range.

And though a decade ago, their tobacco-stained legacy is still remembered by the meandering mazes of their fingerprints.

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Her hands are a constellation of freckles, peppered with memories of days in the warmth.

Thailand. Israel. Spain.

Their slender beauty the envy of stained glass windows everywhere.

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My Mother is a picture perfect portrait of bitten fingernails against chapped lips.

My Mother. A charismatic Dutch cabinet whose sturdy doors are a pair of ever-flushed cheeks, unoquivocally nurturing me.

I love my Mother’s hands.

And I love my Mother.