The old hands
Those old hands are still alert. She shows them to me from time to time so that I can witness the ravages of arthritis with her. She complains, but she smiles. “Look how twisted they are,” she says softly, laughing, as if her hands, now rigid and painful, were old friends she could no longer fully understand but still loved all the same.
Those hands, of course, have done so much. They are a mother’s hands, after all. They might have seemed magical at one time, soothing a child’s fears with a simple touch to the forehead. They brought reassurance as they tied shoelaces, buttoned coats, or gently dried tears that came too quickly. Every gesture, whether mundane or exceptional, carried a softness unmatched. Even now, despite the wear, those hands retain their power. When she touches us, even briefly, it feels like all is right in the world.
I don’t remember my mother’s hands in the details of her daily work. I’m inventing them now, imagining what they must have been. I know they folded laundry, cooked meals, knitted, gardened, worked in a shop, and loved. Behind the fluid movements of those hands, there was always a silent labour, an unwavering will to make life better for us.
Today, her gestures are slower and more cautious. Simple tasks, like opening a jar or threading a needle, have become challenges. Yet she persists, even finding joy in learning the piano. “As long as I can still do this, I’m happy,” she says with a smile that betrays her pride. In such moments, I realize how much her determination is a life lesson.
We can repeat the cliché: my mother’s hands bear the marks of all her work. Every wrinkle and every deformation tells a story of service, sacrifice, and perseverance. That wear also speaks of happiness lived: the celebrations she organized, the toys she repaired, the hugs she gave without limit. And let us not forget the intimate past they built with the man of her life.
Those hands have also borne the weight of anxiety. They have clenched in worry during our illnesses, trembled over bills to be paid, or faltered in the face of troubling news. Yet they held firm. And now, despite the pain and the slowness, they move with a faint serenity that is only possible because of the love my mother receives from all of us now.
My mother seems at peace with her life, choices, mistakes, and triumphs. I can imagine her story, her entire life concentrated between those worn fingers. And those hands, though weakened, still carry the strength of a well-lived life and infinite love.
I asked an artificial, youthful intelligence—one with an imaginary library in its rare metal neurons—to draw old hands for me. At first, I struggled to make it understand that humans have only five fingers per hand. The mother AI doesn’t have that much experience. Eventually, I got a few acceptable images.
The result is worlds apart from my mother’s hands, yet it resembles them. Old age, like youth, is universal—written in medical textbooks and easily replicated.
My mother’s hands do not rebel against the goddess History. I am privileged to still witness her gestures and hear her words.
I could speak of her smile, gaze, and personality. These would be mirrors pieced into the kaleidoscope of who she is. If you, too, have this privilege—or the memory of her presence—you know exactly what I mean.
A mother’s hands are a cliché, a Polaroid that will one day fade and disappear into the dust of the species. But no matter. As long as I live, I will never tire of replaying their movements in my mind—or in my own hands, which are also slowly drying yet glowing with an unquenchable ember.
