Despite what some people have told me, I don’t see much of a resemblance between my mother and I. Everything from our personalities to our physical appearance seems from the opposite end of a spectrum. However, there is one part of me that I definitely inherited from her: our hands are the same.
Well, same isn’t quite right. Mine are scarred from eczema and perpetual dry skin, hers are marked with old oil burns, the skin is softened with folds of age. And yet, our bone structure is undeniably similar, our nails grow long and oval-shaped. But despite the similarities, I can’t help but think that her hands are so much more elegant than mine.
My hands are young, you see. Smooth and soft (except the eczema); from a blissful life unmarred by hardship. Hers are worn, the skin drapes over a thin frame, dotted with marks that could be age spots or hot oil burns from the vat she used to slave over to keep my hands safe.
She used to tuck our intertwined fingers in her coat pocket during the winter months; now I keep my arm extended to help her walk over the ice.
She burned her hands over and over so that I could live a better life; now it’s my turn to use my hands to help her live a better future.
She held kitchen utensils in her hands; I hold a pen in mine.
Happy Mother’s Day, Mamie.