The Work of Hands

The work of my Mother's hands

Her hands, I so wish I had photos to remind me. Never would that have been permitted.

Her hands, how she hated them.

"Masculine," she lamented.

"Strong," I admired.

They were working hands, capable hands, confident hands, creative hands.

They were the hands that embraced me, fed me, loved me.

They were the hands that molded me into me!