My mother’s hands

I glanced down at my hands tonight, while I was typing some notes for my class.  

I stopped typing.   I took a breath.   I had seen my hands grow old, seen the wrinkles and creases that weren’t there when I was 21.   I suddenly felt my age.  

I have my mother’s hands.   The long, narrow fingers – the hands that were never still, never empty.   They were always busy, those hands – knitting, quilting, crocheting, writing.   I miss her so – and I look at my hands and wonder – am I half the woman she was?

I hope so.   

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