Sometimes I think I have my mother's hands. While hers are remarkably soft and white, mine are calloused, tan and rough. But we both share the wrinkles that come from age, in addition to burns, cuts, scrapes and bruises, from cooking, cleaning (and in my case gardening...my mother hates to garden). But more often now I think I'm not a whole lot like my mother. I'm not a mother nor a wife. I've never had to sacrifice the things she has for her husband and children. I've never been forced to choose between those two and live with that decision for quite some time. I wish I was more like her. I wish I shared her grace, poise, patience, and hope. These days, I work to make my mother proud of me, if only she could see herself in me just a little bit. I wondered what she thinks when people ask about her daughters. What does she say about me? Does she say "I have 2 lovely daughters, both are married to handsome men and have beautiful, amazingly gifted chi...
Comments