I remember looking at my mother’s hands a lot when I was growing up. Her hands seemed to be an integral part of her – strong and capable, slender and gentle, always there. I never realized that my hands looked so much like hers. It was during that week after she died that I happened to look down and make that discovery. She died eleven years ago today.
When my children were born, I looked at their little hands in mine, recognizing those hands once again. I wondered whether my mother had noticed the resemblance when I was little.
I’ve always noticed a strong physical resemblance between my daughter and my mother. Though I was slightly perplexed that everyone comments on how much my daughter looks like me. Until last Summer, I didn’t understand the extent of that. A photographer friend gave us a photo shoot and cd in exchange for use of the photos for her business. I was flipping through the photos and saw one of my daughter from an angle – and there it was. While she has my mother’s nose and my hair wasn’t as dark until I was much older, the picture could have been me as a little girl. The rest of her face, her body, and even her expressions were the same as mine and the same as my mother’s.
Some day, when I’m not around to share stories about my mother, when no one remembers me, there will still be a part of all of us that lives on…For now, it’s comfortaning to know I have my mother’s hands.
