My Mother's Hands

I remember my mother's hands. They were warm and golden and comforting. They never seemed to age, despite years of strenuous, laborious work. My mother worked for over 20 years as a sorter and packer in a fruit warehouse, though you'd never guess that by looking at her hands. For years, the only jewlery to adorn her hands was a simple 14 karat gold wedding band, which suited my mother. She never was a flashy woman. She kept it simple, and that worked for her.

My mother was raised by her mother, a single parent, and a raging alcoholic. I remember my mother talking about my grandmother, how she often ridiculed and belittled my mother, telling her that she was stupid or that she was ugly. Some of those negative traits, unfortunately, do get passed on and my mother struggles to this day to share a kind word with those that she loves, her husband and her children. Don't get me wrong. I know my mother loves me. I have never doubted that. We have butted heads in the past -