Sunday, March 26, 2017

My Mother's Hands

Life is a funny thing. I've been reminiscing about people. Could have something to do that my father in law just passed away, days short of turning 97. Not many left of the generation born in the '20s.
Time marches along. I look in the mirror and the time line lurches abruptly ahead. I see my mother. I don't feel like my mother. But my hands feel like her hands.
I remember talking to her when I was pregnant with my first child. I knew I could love the baby to the moon and back but how would I have all the answers. My mother did. Or at least it seemed like it. She could flip the blankets, twice, and the bed was ready to tuck in the pillows and call it made. She could sew, and knit, and bake, and preserve and garden. She dry walled their house. She built furniture. Refinished stuff. Raised chickens. Made roses of craft paper. Fixed scratches. Recycled stuff. Took things apart. Put things back together.  Sewed clothes.  Her hands knew what to do. Like they had a mind of their own.
I told her I was afraid I wouldn't have all the answers. And she said it was ok. A tiny baby didn't have a lot of hard questions. I would figure it out as I went along.
And she was right and she was wrong. Some things I did learn as they happened. Somethings I had to figure out and research. And somethings I fell flat on my face trying.
Today I was cutting parchment to line baking pans and pulled out the right amount without even thinking. My hands knew. And I remembered my mother again.
What will my children remember about me when I am gone.

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