We held hands since the the moment I was born, sometime with anger, others with frustration, but always with love. Her hands were the ones that taught me how to play, eat, cook, explore, and fight back. It was her hands I always sought whenever I woke up from all the reconstructive surgeries I underwent in my life. They were always there to comfort me, reassure my soul that all would be well.
I miss those hands in mine, telling me some outrageous story or what program she fell asleep on, or even just holding on to me while walking. Those hands were not always kind and gentle, but they were my mothers, and if weren’t for them, I would have turned out to be a helpless wall flower.
She would have been 85 today, and were she alive, the house would be flooded with flowers. Mommy never let bad weather or the foul moods of others stop her from going out and having a good time, especially when food was involved, and those she cared for.
Her hands who taught me all about loving unconditionally, for she was the woman who looked at the disfigured creature she had given birth to and still loved with all her heart.
Her hands that taught me that cook books are like the white lines on the road. A very good suggestion to follow, but if you can find a side road without any silly lines, it would be much more fun. Live and cook by taste, never stick to measurements and standards only.
Her hands breathed life and courage into me when the world could do nothing but stare or accuse. Stand up and fight back! she commanded more times than I can remember, and even now I can still hear her voice in my mind telling me to never give up no matter what.
We held hands until death did us part.