My Mother's Hands

My mother’s hands were never blue-veined and wrinkled. They were never gnarled at the knuckles or spotted brown with age or rough with years of wear.

Her hands were gentle and full of purpose. They could make school lunches and cherry turnovers and a pot of coffee while braiding hair and buttoning blouses and tying shoes. They wiped noses and bandaged knees and could tell a fever to within half a degree. They diapered bottoms and bathed bellies and slathered sunscreen on shoulders and cheeks.

Those hands snapped thousands of beans and shelled peas and shucked corn. They peeled apples and picked strawberries and rolled peanut butter balls and cut cookies. They made pickles and pies and pans of lasagna. They poured hundreds of cups of coffee and sliced trays of pumpkin and zucchini bread.. They cooked meals for the sick and the sad and those who were without…without food, without friends, without a place to be.

My mother’s hands knew how to play a game of Candyland and lose on purpose. They could play Fish and Old Maid and Crazy 8s and never win a single time. They could make dinosaurs out of Playdoh and dress Barbie without looking. Her hands could paint fingernails and toenails fabulous shades of pink and red. They made perfect snowballs and snowmen and delicious snow cream to share with neighbors.

Mom’s hands were strong enough to lift my grandmother into bed and gentle enough to rock my babies to sleep. They wrote checks to charities and letters to far away daughters and Christmas cards to friends and recipes for church cookbooks. They clapped with pride and wiped tears of joy and waved goodbye to those they loved. They served others, helped small children to cross the street, and spread peace at mass.

My mother’s hands were never blue-veined and wrinkled. They were never gnarled at the knuckles or spotted brown with age or rough with years of wear.

They were still much too soon.