My Mother’s Hands

Katherine Ruth Boone • Creative Non-Fiction

Anger, hurt, and wonder flashed through my subconscious when my husband casually pointed to my right hand and asked if there was an age spot there. This moment makes me smile now, but in that moment, I was taken aback, more by the intense feelings flooding through me. I turned my hand to the right, then the left, shifting how the sunlight landed on my hand from different angles. 

I grew frustrated as I could not see any spots on my right hand, and I did not see what my husband had so obviously seen. After several more minutes of intense hand skin scrutiny, I gave up the search and focused on the drive home. Riding in the passenger seat while someone else takes over the responsibility of driving is a nice feeling. The landscape in the East Mountains of New Mexico is beautiful to me in a way few places are. So much of the landscape is untamed and wild, and it conveys a vulnerability and a strength to it that is not felt in the city. 

On the drive home, I kept looking at my hands occasionally, willing myself to see what I did not. I closed my fingers into a fist and opened it again. The skin on my right hand would become smooth when in a fist, but very tiny lines going in complete disorder would appear when my hand was relaxed. 

This was two years ago, and I still do not see any age spots on my hand. I choose not to see what is right before my eyes. Stranger things have happened. It does not bother me that he saw the age spot, but it does bother me that I could not see it. I know he would never lie to me about anything, especially something so small. 

I have always had a fascination with hands, and if I had any talent at drawing, hands would be my specialty. I often find myself staring at my hands, and it inevitably turns into thoughts of my mother’s hands. 

My mother’s hands are so soft and warm. Small, childlike hands that fit inside my own, with the tip of her small fingers coming to the first knuckle of my fingers near the nail bed. She wears a size 5 ring. I marvel that such tiny hands can do so much. My own ring size is 6.5. I have never been one to bite my fingernails, but sometimes, I will put my finger in between my teeth and bite down until there are tooth marks in the skin. I do not bite down hard enough to break through the skin, but just enough to feel the pain. 

I remember walking into the living room, the sound of the piano welcoming me in. The songs my mother played were from memory that she learned from hearing them. I was baffled how her little fingers could fly over the keys and produce such a sweet, calming melody. My mother was marvelous to me, and still is even though she does not have the use of her left arm anymore, due to a stroke in 2010. She is left-handed, and she had to relearn how to speak, eat, and think again. She also had to learn how to write with her right hand. 

Therapy was long and hard for my mother, and throughout it all she always had a kind word for everyone around her. If someone were having a difficult day, my mother would hug them with one arm and encourage them with her radiant smile and infectious laughter. She was the model of genuine kindness I wanted to be. No matter how hard her day was, she always chose to highlight a blessing in her life. She was thankful for every day. 

My mother and I would watch Lifetime movies together when I was a preteen. I would hold her hand throughout the movie and trace my fingers all over her hand. There was just something very comforting about holding her hand. I know my mother’s hands better than I know my own. That sounds incorrect, I realize, but it is true. The time I spent studying my mother’s hands was incalculable. 

My own hands feel incompetent and somehow lacking when I think of all the things my mother’s hands have accomplished in her life. She raised three children, mostly on her own while my father was in the Navy, she helped my father run a dairy farm before his military career, and she held down 2 or 3 jobs at once at any given time while my older brother, younger sister, and I were growing up. One of the jobs my mother had was working at whichever school we attended so she could be close to us. I found this very comforting. 

My mother’s hand was firm when she disciplined us for disobedience. She spanked hard, but she did not abuse us. She would always sit down next to us before the punishment began, and she would explain very calmly what was about to happen. She answered all questions and concerns we had. She made sure we understood why the punishment was being given, only when she was sure we fully comprehended what was happening would she proceed. We were then punished, and afterwards we were hugged and loved on. She explained that she had not punished us because we were bad, she had punished us because we had a choice before us, and we chose to disregard the punishment. We called her bluff, and she was not bluffing. 

I remember my mother using a belt on me one time. She swatted my bottom twice, and the third swat hit me in the leg after I moved sideways. She ended the punishment, hugged me before apologizing and grabbed the first aid kit. The belt had not cut me, but it left a little red welt, which my mother tended to carefully before pulling me onto her lap and having a conversation with me. I remember there were tears in her kind hazel eyes as she apologized for hitting my leg with the belt. What I had done was still naughty, and she expected me to obey her in the future, but that I did not deserve to be hurt that way. The welt healed in a short amount of time, and she never used a belt on me again. 

My mother’s hands were always the right temperature that I needed them to be when I was sick, needed comforting, or just to hold. I found it fascinating that her small, soft hands could be whatever I needed them to be when I needed them. How did she manage to do that? My mother just had the magic mother touch. I was sure my mother was an angel sent down from Heaven, because she was patient and understanding about everything. 

I often wonder how her hands stayed so soft, because she was always working hard with her hands. I am sure my mother used lotion for her hands, but as far as I can recall, I never saw her use any. My mother’s hands had become a symbol for me for what to expect in life. Life was going to be hard, and there were going to be days when it would be all I could do to get through the day. The soft contour of my mother’s hands was proof that good things in life can still shine through, no matter what terrible things come my way. Her intentions were always good. Her intentions and her hands, in my mind, were linked as one, and that link was the symbol of goodness for me. 

My mother’s hands had age spots, and though she did not complain, I could see the pain in her eyes. The way her fingers would clench and open from time to time, would be the only indicative action. She would allow me to rub her fingers gently if I wanted to. It must have relieved some of her pain without allowing me to worry about her. I found out later in life that she dealt with arthritis in her finger joints, and the older I get the more I have pains throughout my body. I can only be in awe of my mother’s disregard of her own afflictions as she did everything, she could for her children to make sure we were happy and healthy. 

The most important thing I ever saw my mother’s hands do was pray. Her faith was steadfast and consistent. She taught me how to pray, and she helped me position my hands the same as hers. With my hands pressed together from palm to fingertip pointed toward the ceiling, I would recite the prayers she taught me. “Now I lay me down to sleep. I pray to the Lord my soul to keep, and if I die before I wake. I pray to the Lord my soul to take.” I used this prayer until I was old enough to pray independently. I love my mother, and she is the reason I strive to be the best version of myself. 

I speak a lot in past tense because these events happened in the past. The last time I saw my mother in person was the week before Thanksgiving in 2021. She lives in Florida, and I live in New Mexico. I moved to New Mexico with my husband in 2017 to be closer to his side of the family. We had spent five years in Florida with my side of the family. My husband did not enjoy living in Florida, because he has lived on the west coast of the country and was used to the dry weather out here. With a country between us, and travel being so expensive, I thank God for technology and Face Time. I can talk to my mother through the miles, and it still amazes me that even now, my gaze searches the screen for a glimpse of my mother’s hands.