She noticed it in her hands first. The age, I mean. They worked so hard for so many years making a living, loving life. Creating and making is what these hands did mostly. They made floral bouquets, they made good food, they made love, and created joy around her and others.
These hands are worthy of the age lines, scars, and worsted knuckles. They have found their way through an undefined life she now realizes wasn’t always an easy one. In fact it was sometimes quite hard—changing diapers and holding a crying baby in the dark hours of night, unsure how she would navigate the next day’s work being so very tired. These hands remember a lot. They’ve caught tears, held hands, gently washed faces, mended cuts and scrapes, and guided other hands easily over bumps and bruises.
These hands have life left in them even though the skin is dry and scaly, and the bones show through. They have never been soft ‘piano hands’ meant for an idle life. Often wet and cold, these hands dug in the dirt, shovelled and raked, stacked and folded. These hands were busy, and still work picking up, cleaning up, and happily moving to the end of each day.
In her moment of reflection, she concluded it isn’t the eyes that mirror the soul—it is the hands. She remembers these hands come to her from her mother through her mother, and her mother’s mother. These hands are generational and speak to a way of life. They care for and hold all the precious things.
These hands, she understood now, are her legacy. These hands will continue to work, holding dear the beating heart of life.
