my mother's hands

My hands look older every month. I remember holding my mom's hand as a child in church, examining it and memorizing the shape of her fingers, her nails, and the lines of her palm. I wondered with a sigh in my heart at all the work they had seen, even as a child. Veins protruded like tributaries under the skin, her nails were rough and uncared for, but they were beautiful hands. Hands that were always there for me, to hug me, to smooth my hair, to make endless meals, to work like a dog beside my father... and always motivated by Love. Wedding ring everpresent on that left ring finger symbolized not only her unflagging devotion to my dad, but to all of us. Now I own two sets of her wedding rings, replaced each time because of the undersides were worn thread thin by manual labor. She has made it a goal to buy a 1-carat solitaire ring--not for herself, but in order to have "something beautiful and valuable" to give me of hers after she dies. "It's the only thing I can give you as a legacy."

Mom, I have it already. You have been giving it my whole entire life.

I hope my hands age with that kind of beauty...