As a child, my mother’s hands seemed enormous. I’d grasped her hand as she walked me into nursery school. Her fingers, long and elegant, “Perfect for playing the piano,” she'd often remark. When she sat at our dining room piano, those fingers danced across the keys while her voice filled our home with melody. Chopsticks was the first song she taught me.
A silver wedding band adorned her finger. She grew her nails just long enough to paint them vibrant reds or soft pinks, adding a touch of beauty to fingers that knew hard work. Her pale palms, dotted with what might have been freckles or perhaps traces of her labor, worked hard on the dairy farm.
Those same fingers that created music also pulled on udders before attaching milking machines—hands equally skilled in art and necessity.
In the evenings, her fingers flew across the typewriter she'd set up on our dining room table. When I needed my handwritten school essays typed, she'd offer to do it. "Go to bed," she'd insist.
What relief I felt climbing the stairs to bed. The rhythmic clacking was followed by the cheerful ding drifting up behind me, as she shouldered my burden.
I see her hands now—no wedding band, thumbs show the gentle curves of time, bearing witness to decades of work and dedication.
I imagine she can still type with surprising speed and play beautiful melodies from piano keys. Her fingers remain long and slender, sometimes with colorful polish. I treasure each moment I can still high-five or hold my mother's hand.
A gift I won’t take for granted.
—Thank you, Mom. Happy Mother’s Day.
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