Her Hands

Her hands are soft, but tremble, like someone holding a newborn child. Blue veins run through them, which look like a beautiful design, delicately decorated on a vase. The scars on her hands reveal her hardships and strengths, like the patterns of a pocketknife. Her fingers are skinny and fragile, like the gentle wings of a lovely butterfly roaming through the skies. On the tips of her fingers, you can see her tender nails, thin and clear, like the petals of a daisy. The warmth her hands give, remind me of a pleasant sunny day and the direction she points with them, guides me in the right destination. Her hands have given me love, care, and comfort. These are not the hands of just anyone; they are the hands of my mother. The hands that have held me when I took my first breath, held me up when I fell, and continue to hold me daily. These hands, my mothers’ hands, do not care about how they appear, but instead care about what they will do and hold.