What I notice are not the scars they have accumulated, the veins that have become more prominent or the knuckles that sometimes ache. What I notice is how they remind me of father's hands, or at least how I remembered his hands to be. I'm not sure what it was about his hands, they weren't particularly large although they were uniquely his. There are also other times when I look in the mirror and see some of my father looking back at me in my own facial features, but mostly it's about the hands. I find something calming and comforting in those brief glimpses.
Then a short while ago, after attempting to sketch my own hand in a drawing exercise, during conversation I mentioned how my hands were reminding me more and more of Dad's. I said that it would have been nice if I had sketched our hands together, or had them sketched by an accomplished artist. Continuing, I thought aloud and wished I was better at it so I could do a sketch my mother's hands. It was suggested that I go ahead and do it, just go ahead and sketch them ... or maybe photograph them.
Soooo ... on a recent visit with mom, we sat talking in her room as we usually do, catching up on things. At one point she laughed and reached out to grasp my hand with both of hers. That was my signal. I grabbed the camera I had with me and asked mom to "do it again" ...
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| loving hands |
DJE
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