Everybody in our family has different hands. My dad’s hands are workers hands, battered and black from working on cars all day. And me, my hands are creative. Cracked and creative. Colleen’s hands are just like she is, different and crazy. With a club thumb, she has hands that are unique to only a few people in the world.
But my mother’s hands, my mother’s hands, like two cleaning machines ready to tackle the next mess, thin but tough, and capable of consoling even the saddest of those. Her hands are soft and small in stature, and in one minute will be doing the dishes and in the next vacuuming the stairs. They are constantly moving, never slowing down, enjoying the busyness the day brings.