The Hands

It is interesting the things we remember. I remember my mother being fond of telling me "You have your father's hands. Stocky, masculine. Your sister on the other hand, has the long slender hands of my mother, so elegant and feminine. " At the time, I was about 17, I thought, well, OK, then, I have my father's hands. He is intelligent, I can live with that. My father died in 2008, under tragic circumstances, and I find myself talking to him all the time. I drive a lot, taking my son back and forth to his college classes to save him time, and I often think of my father when he was driving. He always seemed absorbed in thought, and since I was told I had his hands, I often watched them. The way he held the steering wheel, the way he held them when he smoked, the way he covered his mouth when he sneezed or coughed. I have noticed that I hold the steering wheel the same way he did. Very relaxed,and far apart. I watched my hands and I was happy they were like his. Strong, compact, not feminine. A part of him was always with me, and that gives me hope and strength. My mother's hands were more feminine than mine, and always carefully manicured in a variety of nail colours. She forever despaired at my clumsy attempts she thought of trying my best to do my nails in a way that passed her inspection. No matter. I never think of her hands. But the insult she thought she was giving me is now a source of comfort, of pride. It is with my father's sturdy hands that I write, that I make my tapestries. He finally would be proud of me. Late in my college days he told me I would make a good journalist. In a way that is exactly what I am, writing about my 39 years now in the US, mixing in my stories with my poems. The legacy my father left me is with me every day, the strength I found inside I see in his sisters , in their daughters, and that strength has gotten me to turn many a dark corner. The legacy my mother left me was one of insecurity and self - doubt, anxiety and sadness at never feeling good enough to pass her supposed aristocratic standards for status, ambition and marriage. And of course, clothes, hair style and nails. I will take my father's strong hands any day. They are companions to mine, and suit me just fine. Genetics are a fascinating thing. My son has the big shoulders my brother has, and the height of both the men in my husband's family and in my mother's family. He has the curly hair of the people on my maternal grandmother's side, and the mannerisms of passionate expression of my father in law and one of my brother's in law. I cannot imagine telling him anything but how awesome I think this is. As far as his hands go, mine disappear in them, which is absolutely delightful. I have my father's hands. I think they are beautiful.