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The Love in a Mother’s Hands: A Reflection on Generational Care
I’ve been thinking a lot about hands. Mothers’ hands.
Yesterday, feeling “blah” while lying in bed, my mind drifted to thoughts of my mom’s hands.
She always kept her nails long, manicured, and painted in shades of pinks, reds, or even blue to match her favorite car. Her long nails highlighted the slender elegance of her fingers, only slightly knotty in her later years from arthritis and osteoporosis.
Hers were lovely hands, always soft despite her disdain for dishwashers and reluctance to wear gloves when cleaning.
When I was sick as a child, her hands served a higher purpose — fever detection.
Her palm, cool and soothing, would press against my forehead while her other hand cradled the back of my neck. We didn’t rely on thermometers; we had Mom’s experienced touch. She always knew when it was a fever, offering a gentle diagnosis that came with comfort:
“Yeah, I think you have a little fever. Why don’t you go lay down for a bit?”
And I would. Because she was Mom, and she was always right about fevers.
Hands That Held Generations
Later in life, when she was in the nursing home, her hands changed. Once so elegant, her…
