Happy Birthday Mami
She showed me a new cut on her already scarred, rough, and beat up hand.
It was deep and infected. Not because a dirty weapon ripped her flesh, but because she always seemed to find herself too busy to stop and disinfect the gash.
"I like your hands." I said to her.
She didn't listen.
"If I had your hands it would mean that I know how to do things." I said to her.
She didn't listen.
Instead, she wished aloud for prettier hands, delicate hands. She yearned for a manicure that would dissolve the need to work her hands to the bone in order to provide for her family. Instead, she got Bella's five-year-old five fingers adding five layers of whatever nail polish colors picked her fancy. Pink. Blue. Shiny. Purple. More pink.
One thing is certain- my mother's multi-colored manicured hands can do anything.
Her hands alter clothes. Her hands bake and decorate cakes. Her hands work power tools. Her hands build, paint, tickle, and heal. Her hands are strong. Her hands have held together the broken pieces of me again and again as I cry in the embrace of her hands.
HER HANDS KNOW WHAT IT MEANS TO FIGHT.
They also know what it means to let go.
Sometimes, her hands need to be held. Sometimes, her hands are tired of washing endless dishes and signing countless doctor consent forms. Sometimes, my superwoman gets tired and needs hands to steady her own. That is where I come in. My shellac-painted hands aren't as scarred or tough. My hands aren't as skilled or strong. My hands don't actually know how to do much, but they do know how to love, for they learned from example.
I owe everything I am to my mother's hands.
Each adventure I've encountered. Each boulder overcome. Each rejection and failure over the past 23 years have brought me back to her open hands. The hands that help me stand up again and lend me a lip gloss for one should never head out into the world without looking their best and an apple in case they get hungry.
Each year I am more grateful for my mother's hands. Each year I realize just how much my own are starting to look like hers. Each year I celebrate my birthday when I really should be celebrating the woman who gave me birth.
She gave me love.
She gave me knowledge.
She gave me her hands.
It was deep and infected. Not because a dirty weapon ripped her flesh, but because she always seemed to find herself too busy to stop and disinfect the gash.
"I like your hands." I said to her.
She didn't listen.
"If I had your hands it would mean that I know how to do things." I said to her.
She didn't listen.
Instead, she wished aloud for prettier hands, delicate hands. She yearned for a manicure that would dissolve the need to work her hands to the bone in order to provide for her family. Instead, she got Bella's five-year-old five fingers adding five layers of whatever nail polish colors picked her fancy. Pink. Blue. Shiny. Purple. More pink.
One thing is certain- my mother's multi-colored manicured hands can do anything.
Her hands alter clothes. Her hands bake and decorate cakes. Her hands work power tools. Her hands build, paint, tickle, and heal. Her hands are strong. Her hands have held together the broken pieces of me again and again as I cry in the embrace of her hands.
HER HANDS KNOW WHAT IT MEANS TO FIGHT.
They also know what it means to let go.
Sometimes, her hands need to be held. Sometimes, her hands are tired of washing endless dishes and signing countless doctor consent forms. Sometimes, my superwoman gets tired and needs hands to steady her own. That is where I come in. My shellac-painted hands aren't as scarred or tough. My hands aren't as skilled or strong. My hands don't actually know how to do much, but they do know how to love, for they learned from example.
I owe everything I am to my mother's hands.
Each adventure I've encountered. Each boulder overcome. Each rejection and failure over the past 23 years have brought me back to her open hands. The hands that help me stand up again and lend me a lip gloss for one should never head out into the world without looking their best and an apple in case they get hungry.
Each year I am more grateful for my mother's hands. Each year I realize just how much my own are starting to look like hers. Each year I celebrate my birthday when I really should be celebrating the woman who gave me birth.
She gave me love.
She gave me knowledge.
She gave me her hands.
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