I'm Wearing My Mother's Hands

When I was roughly 19 – or I might have been 29 –I don’t remember the details because the incident was not important to me, until now.  Anyway, my mother and I were washing dishes together when she stopped, examined her hands and said sadly, “I used to have beautiful hands.  Everyone would say, ‘what pretty hands you have’.  Look at them now. There’s no point in doing my nails – I don’t want anyone looking at my hands anymore.”

“Mm-hm,” I responded without looking at her hands.  My mother’s laments over the loss of her beautiful hands, her luxurious hair, and her adorable, trim figure had all become commonplace. Not that I doubted she had been a real knock out, but come on!  When you’re old, you’re old. Get over it.

Somewhere near my 45th birthday I was driving to work when I looked down at my hands on the steering wheel and nearly had to pull over to take in what I saw. I was wearing my mother’s hands.  There they were with age spots, bulging veins and crepey skin – exactly like the hands my mother had lamented. I had been overcome with guilt the first time my daughter spewed venomous diatribes at me and I realized that I, too, had once been a hateful daughter.  Now I was filled with the same guilt over my lack of compassion for my mother’s sadness as she lost the attributes she had once treasured. 

I had already dealt with baggy knees, and the chicken skin that replaced the smooth, taut skin on my neck. But this was far worse. My neck could be covered up with turtlenecks or tightened with surgery. My knees were rarely noticeable anymore – my mini-skirt days were definitely behind me, and I almost always wore pants. But my hands!  My once beautiful hands that I had adorned with rings to draw attention to them. I had rings for nearly every finger and I had loved the look - when I had beautiful hands.

Honestly, there’s nothing you can do about your hands. You can slather them with the most expensive lotions and the crepe-iness still exists. You can put skin whiteners on the brown spots, but they don’t really disappear. And those veins! If there was a surgical procedure to remove unsightly veins from the hands, I’m sure every woman over 50 would gladly give up having blood run to her fingertips.

And yet, when I think of my mother’s hands I don’t remember them as unsightly at all. I remember them stroking the hair out of my face to keep it from being soaked by my tears when my first boyfriend dumped me. I remember them lifting freshly baked cookies off the cookie sheet so I could eat one even though the melted chocolate chips were still hot enough to burn my tongue. I remember them turning the pages of books she read to me and then to my children. And I remember them smoothing my grandmother’s dress as she lay in her coffin, her aged hands crossed over her heart.  There is nothing ugly to remember about my mother’s hands. Every touch with those hands was filled with love – and beauty.

I can’t stop wishing that my rear-end would cease its rapid descent down the backs of my thighs, or that my waist would miraculously appear again. But when I look at my hands, with their striking similarities to my mother’s, I love the lines and spots and crooked fingers. And I hope that every time I touch my children, or bake something special for my family, or reach out to comfort a friend, that I truly am wearing my mother’s hands.

Comments

I remember my Grandma painting my nails with clear polish like she did her own. I looked at my plain, white, 9 year old hand and actually wished it had the beauty of my Grandma's. I didn't know they were called "age spots" then. I just thought they looked pretty! My own age spots don't appeal to me as much. I loved your thoughts!
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