My hands. My mom’s hands. My grandma’s hands. My great-grandma’s hands. My baby boy’s hands. The older I get, the more and more my hands are starting to look like my mom’s. I am 30. She is 53. And my baby boy is 4 months old. Almost. His hands are soft and mushy and have dimples on the knuckles. I love his hands and I kiss them over and over every day. His hands grasp my finger and hold on tight. His hands go in his mouth and are covered with drool. His hands recently just started reaching down to his nether regions when I change his diaper. I love his hands.
I also imagine a potter forming a something or other with their hands. Covered in clay. Some of it is dried and some is still wet. A big mess. But creative. It will turn into something beautiful. I had a little kids’ pottery wheel when I was younger. I never quite got the hang of it. Plastic piece of junk.
On my left hand is a wedding ring. This year we will be married 8 years. I cried when he asked me to marry him. And I cried on our wedding day. My fingers swell at night so I take them off. Sometimes I think my hands will shake when I get old. And that is okay. They may get stiff. And wrinkly and freckled. Age spots. But I will always remember that these hands held the face and hands of my little baby. And it felt so soft and squishy. And he smiled at me, sometimes with his tongue sticking out.