I looked down at my hands last night and there they were, my mother's hands. Not her hands as I know them now, but as I remember them from my childhood. The hands that wiped my tears, cleaned my scrapes, and held me while I cried. These hands, to my child-eyes were beautiful, graceful and delicate. And it occurred to me that my hands will be seen that way through my own children's eyes. It struck me more poignantly then it did after giving birth, or after kissing their first boo-boos that these hands, my hands will do the same for my girls.
They won't remember the cracked fingers, or the dirt under my nails. They won't notice that I have one nail that won't grow without splitting or that no matter how many times I apply lotion they are completely devoid of moisture.
These hands, my hands will wipe tears, clean scrapes, hold my crying girls. My hands, these hands will hold their little hands as they grow, will nurse them when they are sick, will wipe bottoms and tears with equal love.
These hands will throw snowballs, show them how to plant their first flowers and hug them when they leave for school. My hands will tuck them in at night, fight off their nightmares, nurture their dreams and then slowly let go.
My hands will touch their faces softly, my lips will kiss them when they leave to make their way in the world, I will hold their hands before they walk down the aisle, and wipe the sweat from their brow as they bring their children into this world. I do have my mother's hands, just as surely as I have her legacy of love to pass along. I hope that my hands will be as beautiful to my girls as my own mother's are to me.