MY MOTHER'S HANDS

My mothers hands are wrinkled. Their veins look bulging and thick skin lines, like shoelaces, scattered, cross each other. At first, her hands seemed ugly to me, but I started to meditate on what those hands meant to me, and looking at them again I saw them beautiful, dignified, strong, like wrapped in a diamond light. Those hands were tender and weak one day; then they grew and gained strength, and became beautiful. But the weight of years and the stamp of labor made them old and wrinkled. Now they are the hands of a mature woman; noble who has gone bending before the impetus of life. I love those hands. They opened up to load me when I was barely a hunk of meat and bones. They were always requested to guide my steps trembling in my childhood, uncertain in my youth and still not always firm in my maturity. Those hands prepared with unmatched love the foods that gave me life. More than once they pressed the rod to punish me for a crime committed. They were constructive hands, who had the charm to convey friendship and inject encouragement. Through the fingers of those hands pours the light of a loving heart, or they were like golden threads woven around me to give me protection. In the home those hands kept busy doing a thousand things, always open to do good. Now it's shaky, wrinkled hands and not much strength. But they haven't stopped being an inspiration to me, because they still stretch to open the door for the son coming home. To hold the cup of coffee that he gives me during my visits or to greet those who approach it. In the fabric of history, mothers' hands have done much work. Before leaving the room, I bowed down and kissed the hands, my sweet Mother's beautiful hands. And you, have you stopped to contemplate your Mother's hands? Love her, give her the love she needs now that you have it, remember the past is dead, the present is now, but the future does not exist. 💕 Credits to the author.