I still don't know how she did it.
How she's had such beautiful, delicate, lovely, hands her entire life.
She certainly worked those fingers.
The countless dinners and special lovingly created meals.
The perfect pie crusts.
Hot, flaky, rich and gooey cinnamon rolls, prepared from scratch and made with her heart.
I remember, standing with my nose to the table as I captured every detail.
Punching down the yeast filled ball of dough.
Watching Her pull and roll, roll and fold, then start again.
Flour the table, pull and roll, roll and fold until at last these were large dough balls ready to be divided and baked.
The way She measured from memory,
An expert flick here, a quick toss there.
A taste, and another subtle smidgen of flavor in just the right place.
Those hands spent years perfecting tastes.
I loved to watch those fingers dance across the clothesline, adding and removing pins for each breeze-kissed load of wash.
Those beautiful hands, that were able to take the tiniest of creations and paint details that would seem small for insects.
Hands that were delicate enough to paint irises on an egg's shell, yet strong enough to hold that shell for hours to do it.
Those are hands that have always amazed me,
Hands that are never too busy to stop and help with a need.
The tender touch on a cheek or forehead to test for a temperature.
The talented fingers grazing over a skinned knee, carefully cleaning, blotting repairing and bandaging... all with the experienced grace of a seasoned nurse.
Hard-working hands that never stopped for a rest.
Hands that missed her own meals but not the chance to make one for someone else.
Hands that prayed.
Hands that held well-worn and much-loved hymnals and story books,
The way they animatedly described the story's scenery and perfectly captured the gestures and mannerisms of the colorful characters is one more reason I fell in love with reading.
Those hands are the hands of a Mother.
The hands of a Chef.
The hands of a Maid.
They're hands of a Mom.
The hands of a Doctor
The hands of Servant.
They are the hands of a Mommy.
And I hope, one day, My hands to Her.