The other day while putting lotion on my hands, I slowed down for a moment and took a good look at them. As I slowly rubbed in the lotion on the back of my left hand, outlining the little veins that are almost invisible under my skin, then between my knuckles and onto my fingers, I began to realize my hands are changing. They're slowly resembling the hands that held me when I was little. The hands that caressed my face and brushed my long hair. They're changing into my mother's hands.
It's eerie. But I smiled.
Because these aging hands remind me of the nurturing and warmth my mother has always given me. And maybe someday whenever I have children of my own, they'll represent the same for them.
