My Mother's Hands

When I look at my mother's hands I hope to one day be as proud of my hands as I am of hers. They've worked hard, they've loved, they've cared for and sacrificed from a very young age.

When my grandfather died after years of alcoholism, my grandmother was left with seven children to care for. Never having worked a day in her life and borderline illiterate, she had to figure out a way to survive. My mother and her two younger brothers were still minors so they couldn't look for conventional work. My mom was around 13 years old when my grandmother sent her away to a wealthy family to be their live-in maid in exchange for a roof over her head and food in her stomach.

My mother cried, all she wanted was to be home. She got to go home on the weekends but had to return to the hard labor of carrying a full household at the age of 13. Her hands haven't stopped working since.

She's worked hard, she is raising a family (yes, still... little bro is only 11). Those hands have wiped floors clean and wiped tears away, spanked bottoms and caressed faces, braided hair and held tiny hands. Those hands have had a full journey, they're my mother's hands.