Hands.

Think about a person’s hands.  They have so many tasks to fulfil in a lifetime.  So tiny and delicate as a baby, so rough as an old person. 

I have a picture of my grandfather sitting on his rocking chair, in the kitchen.  It was 1979 and he was holding my oldest son.  The words he was sharing with me at the moment was how tiny and delicate my son’s hands were and how his little fingers were so intricate and fragile.  How true it was.

Fast forward to when my first husband was on life support.  I remember looking at his hands and forearms.  He developed a series of twitches.  His right thumb was the first.  I would go and hold his hand so the twitch wasn’t so obvious.  After Bruce died, my daughter and I went to visit one of Bruce’s brother’s.  I remember looking at his hand and forearm and realizing that it looked exactly like Bruce’s. 

These days, I see my son’s hands, especially my oldest son’s, and I again, see his dad’s.  It’s silly that a hand can create so many memories.   

Fast forward again.   We were at my son’s wedding and for some reason it occurred to me to get pictures of my grandmother, my mom, myself, my daughter, and my oldest granddaughter’s hands.  This group of hands allowed us to spam 96 years.  We saw hands of a 2-year-old through a 96-year-old.  Incredible.

My grandmother was in Hospice and we knew her life was ending, a hospice nurse pulled a couple of us aside and encouraged us to take pictures of her hands.  She believed that this was a good remembrance. I know I have a picture of my mom holding her mom’s hand.

Since then, I have made it a point to take pictures of hands.  When I look at these pictures.  I definitely go back in time.  But when I really look at them, I see a lifetime of growing.

On my Facebook page, I have a background picture of me holding my mom’s hand a day or two prior to her dying.  I obviously see our hands as pictured.  I see so much more though.  I see a mother tenderly holding her babies’ hand.  I see a mom sternly touching her daughter to keep her aligned.  I see a hand a of a very hard worker. I see a grandma’s hand, a great-grandma’s hand.  I see a sister’s hand.  I see a daughter’s hand.

When I look at my own hand.  I see my hands aging.  I remember young girl’s hands trying hard not to hold her mother’s hand crossing a street. I remember a young mother’s hand touching my babies for the first time. I see the hands that have patted her kids’ back’s with great pride and joy. I see the hands who have met her 4 grandchildren for the first times.  I remember touching many people for the last time. 

With my own hands, I will continue to touch and show pride with those I love.  I will continue to use them to greet new people.  I will continue to get them dirty and use them for hard work.  I will continue to be impressed by the powers of them. I too, will continue to write with them.

Hands truly are amazing parts of all of us.