I have always loved my mother's hands. When I was little they were so familiar to me. The way they felt, the way the looked. I would look down at my own chubby pink fingers and be amazed at how different mine were from hers.
My mothers hands were worn a bit. They were lean. I could see the veins on the backs of her hands. They were tan. They were strong. I loved it when she took my hand into hers or stroked my cheek and hair. I always felt so safe and secure.
The other day I looked down at my own hands and saw my mother's hands. The mental picture I always carried around in my head of her hands now matches what I see in front of me. I have grown into her hands.
I love this. It makes any irritation about the aging of my body, the angst over the sagging skin and age marks and wrinkles, all of it- disappear. I have my mother's hands. I only hope that my hands give my children as much comfort and safety as my mother's gave to me.