I looked at my mothers hands the other day, and it struck me how much life I saw in them. I marvel at those hands and recall all the strength and tenderness they have shown throughout the years.
When I was about 10 years old I had long hair, and I remember my mother brushing it into pony tails. She would quickly and softly brush it out and put the rubber bands in. Also those summer days when I would come home from a day full of swimming and she would carefully untangle those same rubber bands, and brush out my now swimmers green hair.
Those summer evenings spent in the yard playing, watching as my mother would pull weeds out from among the patch of daisies that grew in the beds. A tug here, a scrape there, the weed came out and the daisies bloomed.
Day after day my mother would fix our lunches for school. An assembly line of sandwiches, fruit and maybe a cookie, lovingly placed in a brown paper lunch bag for each of us. Maybe not glamorous or our favorite, but always something good.
I remember, not long before my grandfather passed away, we were visiting and had tickets to a play. Because he was not well, he wasn’t going with us I watched as my mother took her father’s hands in hers, gently patted his hand as she spoke to him before we left for the evening.
It’s all those little things, the weeding of the garden the brushing of hair, the gentleness of holding her fathers hands in hers and countless other day-to-day activities. Little things to be sure, but when I recall those moments in time I smile. My mother’s hands- such strength, such life.