This may sound strange, but sometimes I look at my hands and nearly do a double take. My hands are becoming my mother’s hands, or at least my childhood memory of them. Cutting bread into fours for Annie, pulling on the girls’ hats and mitts, stirring the soup . . . they actually look exactly like my mom’s.
This is a portrait of my Grandma’s hands. It is a fresh take on portraiture in that it doesn’t include her face, and yet for those who know her it’s undeniable. Without a doubt, these digits have but one sole owner! Hands can be as unique as faces, and they tell many stories.
It has occurred to me as we approach Mother’s Day how amazing hands are as an example of a mother’s love. They do so much, take a lot of abuse, bear the “battle scars” of raising us, or at very least they reveal signs of keeping life clean, orderly, peaceful and content.
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