MY MOTHER’S HANDS

Have you ever walked down a busy street, and as you do so many unfamiliar faces pass you by that all you do is look for one that might be familiar?

As a child the only one we can recognize at birth is our Mother. As a newborn, we can only sense her presence at first, and know by her gentle touch the feel of her hands, hands that are gentle and reassuring.

Growing older we learn that the very hands of our Mother are a familiar sight. We watch them as they cook and as they clean, guiding us in the right direction and stopping us from going too far astray. Those hands that carried us opened the first book ever read to us, and perhaps the first book we learned to read from. Aside from her face, a face that stays with us all the days of our lives, we can remember her hands. They were there stretched out as we learned to walk, and the first hands we cried for when she left us off at school for the first time and she waved goodbye as we entered the school building, the hands of comfort, the ones that believe in you.

One day we realize we are older, as old as a time we can remember in our lives that our mother was, and we marvel that we were even allowed to be that similar. And as we look at her hands, we realize that they too are older, but that they can tell a story beyond what you will ever know, catching each wrinkle and fold tells of a year gone by, a child raised, a tear cried, and most of all lips that smiled and praised and said; “I love you.”

So next time you walk a crowded street, look carefully, you may see your Mother, or someone who looks just like her, and you will remember all that she did for you, you will remember her hands.

HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY, MOM AND ALL THE MOMS THAT WERE AND ARE, AND MOST IMPORTANTLY, WILL BE.