When I was very young, my mother’s hands were as white as porcelain, as smooth as silk, with each long slender finger tipped with fire engine red. I loved their beauty and inherent strength, their ability to dwarf my own, and the fine cursive handwriting and pencil sketches they could do.
They looked nothing like my own hands. Mine were tiny and insignificant, always dirty from playing in the garden and scratched from climbing trees. I wanted mine to be more like hers. I wanted to be more like her. I admired her for her courage, her beauty, and most of all for her strength. I thought she could handle anything. Read more
