Mama’s Hands

When I was a child, my mama’s hands were long-fingered with silken skin that held the scent of Jergens Lotion. Her nails were smooth and oval, tinted pale pink with white tips. If I found myself having to be still for any length of time while sitting next to Mama, I would trace the lines in her palm, measure my hand against hers, gingerly press down on the blue veins that showed on the backs of her hands, and trace, with my finger, the ins and outs of her fingers. I loved the smooth softness that was the skin on Mama’s hands. Even though I didn’t yet know the word for it, I sensed that her hands were elegant.

Mama’s hands were strong and hardly ever still. She had the shining floors, sparkling windows, and spotless laundry to prove it. Because of the hard work she did, a couple of her knuckles were enlarged, but it only added to the beauty of her hands. It made them the hands of a real person–a practical, down to earth, every day person. A person who could be someone’s mom. Who could fix dinner and wash dishes and hold your head while you were sick and tie your sash and give you a smack if you needed it.

Touching Mama’s hands was better than a kiss. Her hands were the evidence that I had a pretty mama, and I loved touching her hands. She welcomed my caresses because she loved me. She was mine and I was hers.
Made with real cheese for a melt-in-your-mouth flavor you can’t resist.


About paulajwray

I am a writer and I live in the Rocky Mountains of southwest Colorado with my husband and a balding black cat. I write humor, flash fiction, creative non-fiction, inspirational essays, and poetry. When I'm not writing, making lists, or forcing a family member to listen to something I've written, I'm reading, gardening, or laughing with my friends. I also, occasionally, sit and stare.
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One Response to Mama’s Hands

  1. Connie Allen says:

    Beautifully written bringing back memories of my own mama’s hands.

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