When I turned five and went to nursery school, she was
worried about me because it was my first day at school. That
morning I shooed her away when she tried to wait for my bus
with me. She stayed behind the gates and still saw me off.
On the first school poem reciting contest I joined in first
grade, she helped me with memorization and the actions. I
vaguely remember that the poem was about a turtle trapped in
a box. I lost but I still feel that she was the best coach
for me.
All my years in school, I never went to class in rumpled
uniform or rumpled clothes. She ironed each piece of
clothing into straightness, and no crease was ever out of
place.
She hand-washed every dress, shirt and pants and I never
went around in clothes with stains or spots. She made sure
I wore clean, fresh, crisp and neat clothes, even if they
weren't new.
I never went to school hungry or without lunch. She made
sure she cooked something for me. We weren't always so
well-off and in my young years, she didn't have that much
money to give me so I went to school with packed lunch.
Several times, I got embarrassed by this. I was already in
sixth grade and yet, I was still bringing lunch with me
instead of buying it like all the other kids.
Numerous times she went up the stage to put medals around my
neck. Numerous times I took her for granted. She was a
perfect mother and I was an imperfect daughter.
A lot of times I would get angry at her if she tries to tell
me something or lecture me. I would not speak to her for
weeks. I would stop eating the food she cooked and avoid
being in the same room with her. One of our worst fights
drove her to the hospital when her blood pressure went up.
I realized what I did and told her I was sorry.
A few months later, I was back to hurting her again. A year
and a half ago, we had another fight. It was one of the
worst fights we had. There were shouting and crying and
hurling of hurting words.
Finally, I broke down and told her what was bothering me.
I've been so afraid that she couldn't take what had happened
to me, and that she wouldn't understand. But I was wrong.
She held me tight and together we cried.
Her hands never stopped stroking my hair. They gave me
incredible comfort and they spoke unconditional acceptance
of me - however, whatever and whichever way I come to her.
They spoke a million times of accepting and re-accepting me,
no matter how many more times I would falter and hurt her.
It's very seldom that mom would get her hands manicured.
Those few times, the color chipped off after only a day.
It's because she had dishes to wash and clothes to launder
and iron.
Her hands are thick. They're calloused and have blisters.
Her fingernails are always short. The skin on her hands is
dry.
One would say my mother's hands are ugly. I will be the
first one to disagree. I know how she spent the hours using
those hands for over 25 years. I know who she used those
hands for. I know the love that went into every blister,
every scar, every dry cell, every broken nail.
I look at her hands and I see the tangible evidence of her
love for me. I do not have any need for words to tell me of
her love.
My mom has the world's most beautiful hands. All I need to
do is look at them to prove it.
Copyright Shery Ma Belle Arrieta
About the Author
Shery is the owner of www.WriteMemories.com, your companion
to writing and preserving your memories. In partnership with
The e-Writer's Place, WriteMemories.com launches SNAPSHOTS:
Writing Your Memory, Writing Your Life, a 3-week email
workshop on journaling, scrapbooking and memoir writing.
Visit here
for the complete course outline and information on how you
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