Tilly Evan Jones

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.