When I miss my mother...

I look at my hands and there she is, not just beside me, but part of me.

My mother was a tiny woman, 5 foot tall, I loved to remind her that I was half an inch taller than she was. She had hands that indicated independence and strength, square and strong, the veins always seemed to be almost on the outside. When I was a child I used to be fascinated by the veins on her hands.

If you read one of my previous blog entries, about how my veins duck and roll and vanish when a needle approaches, you would be surprised to know that the veins on my hands are big and fat, and yes, quite ugly. My grandchildren in turn, as they reach the age where they begin to notice such details, have all traced the veins on the back of my hands with their tiny fingers, fascinated. Just the way I did to my mother. That is another thing that makes me feel closer to her.

We were very different in many ways, but very similar in many more ways. Probably that is the reason that we didn't really get along. Actually, that doesn't really do either of us justice, we did get along, but we were both very reserved and emotionally private, therefore like opposing magnets, we never became close. It took me a very long time to appreciate that, and even longer to take comfort in it.

When I miss her, I look at the back of my hands, and there she is.