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.