My Mother’s Hands
I really love how this page turned out. I’ve been wanting to scrap about my hands and how they remind me of my mother’s hands. Looking at this page I’m remind of all the stories I want to tell about my life, my childhood and children. There are so many things I don’t want to forget.
My hands have an oddly weathered look. I’m not old, but I’m not young either; but for as long as I can remember, my hands have looked a bit seasoned … mature.
I look like my dad or at least my dad’s family. I hear that all the time, “You look like a DeMucha.” If you saw me with my Aunt Paulette, you’d think I was her daughter. I definitely favor the DeMucha side of my family.
But if you look at my hands, you’ll see my mother. I didn’t notice this until a few years ago, and maybe it’s only because as I get older, I’m more obsessed with the aging process and my hands are quickly turning into my mother’s. Even as a kid, my mama’s hands had a leathered looked, a bit like a shriveled apple. They have always been soft, warm and comforting, but just old and worn. There is something oddly comforting in having Mama’s hands. My mother’s hand where the ones that held me as a child, wiped my tears, fixed my scrapes … and now my hands are doing the very same thing for my babies.