My mother’s hands

Prompt 266: Tell me about your mother’s hands: Go for ten.

My mother’s hands. Old. Delicate. Strong. Pained. Knuckled. Smooth. Dark spots and thick veins on thin white skin. Welcome. Wanted. Yearned for.
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She reaches deep into ground meat to mix breadcrumbs, eggs, ketchup and mustard. Teaches my son to flute a piecrust. Butters a turkey. Gives a stinging spanking. My mother’s hands. I watch as she dries them on her apron before reaching for something: a knife, a spice, a runny nose. She gestures as she speaks. Places hundreds of pills, one at a time, into a month’s worth of four-times-a-day containers.
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My mother holds a baby with her hands, with her arms, with her body. Lifts a cigarette to her lips, long nails polished. Struggles to write, or spell, a short note on the bottom of a birthday card, after having underlined the important words from Hallmark. I see her hands cleaning. Wringing out rags. Using a thumbnail for the stubborn spots. Shaking a damp tea towel with a ferlop, and then spreading it out on the counter at end of an evening when all the dishes have been washed, dried and put away, counters wiped down and coffee set for morning.
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I feel my mother’s hands lay softly on my cheeks as she looks into my eyes as if to embed some hope or wish for me, until she sees me next.
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