Mother's Day.

I worked a 12 hr. night shift last night...was busy enough to not get tired, but busy enough to have a hard time falling asleep when I got home too. All I could think about was the Dr. I witnessed crouched over a trash can at the nurse's station heaving. Yep, folks the flu has hit Holland with a vengence. I seem to have recovered as has Joe, but have been battling a headache today.

Mother's Day was lovely. Breakfast, freshly picked flowers, photos, itunes gift card, willow tree sculpture, and this:



The back of my grandmother's hands are smooth, soft, and warm like towels
fresh out of the dryer. The inside of her wrists are even softer;
there her thin skin feels like velvet to me.
I remember visting her as a little girl, watching her remove all her
rings and applying sweet smelling lotion, and climbing into her lap,
I'd lay my head against her chest.
Then I'd begin a trail along her knuckles with my fingers.
Sometimes I would make it to the tips of her fingers where her long
nails cracked, and the skin poked out, dry and snagging. She'd take my
hand and place it on the inside of her wrist
or again on her knuckles saying:
"You should touch here or there, that's where my nice skin is."

My mother's hands are quite different.
Her skin is thick and firm, she keeps her nails short,
and there are tiny down hairs around her knuckles. When I was young, I would sit next
to her with my head agianst her shoulder, and trail my fingers in her palm, following
deep lines, up to her finger prints...the skin stayed the same, smooth and tight all
the way to the back of her hands and to her wrists.
She let me feel all of it.
And when I was done she would lightly trace my palms up
to the inside crease of my elbow....a relaxed tickle.
Soon I was ready to sleep, content in my mother's consistent texture, and motion.

I remember a few trips I took with my mom and her mom....
I'd watch from the back seat as they took turns driving;
Grandma's hands always looked so elegant, lightly resting on the
steering wheel, rings glimmering in the sunlight,
and her bangle bracelets sliding to clink at her forearms.
I could smell her lotion, and see her soft skin,
and thought about the snags on her fingertips as moved
quickly through the Carolina bends.

Mom's hands gripped the steering
wheel slightly,
and she wore only her wedding
ring that shone
once in awhile upon a pair of
passing headlights.
My eyes opened and closed,
watching her steer in the dark,
as I traced the trail she often
left on the inside of my forearm.
I rested well in the
comfortable support
her steady hands provided for me.

So yeah. I am blessed.