I’ve spent the winter in the very dry southwest US and have gone through a LOT of hand lotion. Sometimes I look down at my hands when they’re particularly dry and am startled to see the image of my mother’s and grandmothers’ hands there instead of my own. There are the age spots and blood vessels and wrinkles I remember seeing in their hands as they got older.

I smile a little when these hands appear. It’s like my mom and grandmothers have popped in to visit me and say, “Hi, remember us? Do you remember our hands and all they did?”

Yes, I remember. They planted gardens of food, they handed me candies and sticks of gum and scooped Tang into a glass for me when I was a child. They painted beautiful roses on delicate porcelain. They cared for babies. They hugged me so tight whenever they saw me. And they waved goodbye every time I left.

All those hands are gone now, so it’s quite comforting to see them reappear in my own hands. Their hands had important work to do. And my hands still have important work, too.