There is something beautiful about old hands. I never really noticed them before. I don’t really remember my grandparents hands. It wasn’t until I saw a photo that one of my cousins took of her mother’s hands kneading bannock dough, that I started to think about it. Sheryl said it was one of her favorite photos of her mom. She said it connects to happy memories of her mother.
Her mother had been gone for about a year when we talked about the picture. I asked her what had made her take the photo, she told me that she always wanted to remember her mother’s hands. That thought sat with me, it really resonated. I thought about how soft my mother’s skin has gotten over time. I thought about how her hands have changed.
I hadn’t thought about how many times my mothers hands had comforted me or all the items she had held as she handed them to me. As I think about all the times I held my mothers hands, all the times she rubbed my back and all the times she grabbed a hold of me and told me not to worry, and all the times she said she loved me. I realize how precious my mothers hands are to me. I realized exactly why my cousin would want a photo of her mothers hands. The hands of my mother represent all the love and security she has for me.
Sakaw Iskwew 