My Mother’s Hands
My mother’s hands were twisted and gnarled. Veins protruded and where there were joints whorls of bone collaborated to work the muscle. Thin, wiry sinew connected the dots of bone that were once famous for creating beautiful needle point and crochet. Her wedding ring and her mother’s wedding ring decorated her fingers, and her nails, while misshapen, were always a timid shade of pink or coral. My mother’s hands held books constantly, until she had her stroke. She no longer cared to read because her attention wandered and only one hand remained useful. The other was a curled up useless piece of flesh. But, those hands still held love and would pat your face while she told you she loved you.
My hands are following the same pattern. Bumps, made from arthritic joints appear from nowhere and make it difficult to write, and sometimes it is very difficult to hold a book. My hands continue to love and my nails are often bright and possibly garish. They are not timid or quiet and they won’t go gentle into the night.
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