I recently took a picture of me holding something. When I looked at the picture, I thought to myself, "My hands look like mom's."
There was something poetic and nostalgic in that tiny moment.
For some reason, I have strong memories as a kid comparing hands. I remember exactly how dad's hands were. My mom's hands. How they looked, felt. Their scars. Bumps. Wrinkles. Softness. Hardness.
My dad had a weird split nail from when he missed a nail and hit his finger with a hammer. I remember the veins on the back of his hand were very pronounced.
My mom always had longer nails that she would file into an oval shape. Her hands were always soft.
My grandma Dorothy's hands would be covered in dirt after an afternoon of gardening. When we came back into the house, there was a specific regimen of washing that involved ivory soap and a nail brush to get every last speck of dirt.
My skin and hands are maturing. I'm maturing. And honestly, I don't mind at all. I'm glad my hands look like my mom's.