Friday, June 6, 2014
i remember the way they looked and how they felt. as a young child, i spent so many moments just looking at my mother's long, thin fingers and her beautifully sculpted nails. i'd trace the wrinkles from her knuckles and ask to try on her rings.
so many sunday night's after a warm bath, she'd comb and brush my hair. she'd clap and holler my name as i ran by during all those rain drenched meets. she prepared dinner, weeded the garden, ironed, and even smoked with those thin, beautiful hands.
and now, years later, i look down and see those same hands on me.
we've each made choices that have pained us and pained others. we've signed papers, handed out money and held someone with them. there has been so many commonalities between us. at some times i've denied it or tried to avoid it, yet regardless of what we sift there will always be similarities that remain between us.
we're writer's, and momma's and friend's. we've each been broken and mended, and broken and mended again, and again, and again. we've been hopeful and lost hope, and shared hope and bolstered each other's hope, around and around again. we've prayed loudly and silently, just as we've cussed. we're real and bold and raw and brave.
and now, years later, i look down and give thanks for those hands, and i smile.