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.
