My Mother’s Hands


My mother has hard-working hands, fingers bent, somewhat gnarled from arthritis, knuckles turned large from worry, life.   Blue tinted veins prominently run under her skin; skin that has turned translucent, fine, almost parchment through her years.  Her nails, at this time, are manicured, acrylic, colored.  And she is quite proud of them. That was not always so.  Her nails were tough, I remember, worn, sometimes brittle from the harsh environment of her daily life.  It used to be, she would take gelatin capsules to keep them strong.  In my childhood, I thought it oddly circular that she would take extract of cow hoofs to make her own nails grow.

Her hands have touched children in love and yet in anger, the men she has loved, with tenderness and delight.  They have held babies close to comfort tears, and gently to give them grace.  They have touched the cheeks of her men, after they passed, with sorrow. And those cheeks of her daughter, our sister,  with greater sorrow after she also passed.  No mother should have the need to hold the hand of a departed child.

They have gardened, farmed, milked cows, swung hammers, sewed clothing, washed clothes, washed backs, changed diapers, mopped floors, butchered chickens, paid bills, fixed hair, slapped faces, made bread; her hands have lived, and still live.

They are a picture in my mind, my mother’s hands, of strength, sorrow, and life.

Advertisements

4 Comments (+add yours?)

  1. Vero
    Mar 18, 2011 @ 13:54:39

    Tilly,
    Your words always touch my heart. Somehow, especially on days that I need it. Again, thank you! Miss you.

    Reply

  2. RoughWaterJohn
    Mar 22, 2011 @ 04:39:36

    That was wonderful, thank you for sharing. It stirred so many memories, reading your words, gazing at the image, remembering…

    Reply

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

Tilly Evan Jones

“I want to think again of dangerous and noble things. I want to be light and frolicsome. I want to be improbable and beautiful and afraid of nothing as though I had wings.” ~Mary Oliver

Lost Creek

Old West Lore, Old West Leather, Chuckwagons, and More

%d bloggers like this: