My Mother's Hands

For as long as I can remember, my mother has always hated her hands. She has a seemingly endless supply of adjectives used to justify why she doesn't like them.

But I love her hands - all hands for that matter. Of all the places on our bodies that can tell the story of our lives, I think hands are the most reflective.

Watching her hands make quick work of a pie crust, her life's work and love is reflected in the small bones and veins flexing and relaxing in a familiar, peaceful rhythm.

The same hands that held me as a baby and cooly took my temperature when I was sick.

The hands that scolded me when I was wrong and comforted me when I was sad.

The hands that taught me to bake long before I could read or understand a recipe.

The hands that encouraged me the night before I moved to New York, as I cried on the couch and asked if I was making a mistake.

The hands I see when I peer down at my own hands, happily covered in a light dusting of flour.

My mother's hands are not perfect and I suspect that is why she does not like them. They show a life of hard work, a few disappointments and an enormous amount of love.

But they reflect everything she taught me about life.

It's not easy. But the simple task of providing nourishment and love to your family is by far the most important and most treasured part of life.

Her hands helped shape and mold me into the woman I am today and will become in the future.

Happy Mother's Day Mummy. Thank you so much for everything. I love you.