I have my mother’s hands; at least that is what my sister says. The short stubby fingers, square fingernails, the translucent skin, I have her hands. My mother framed pictures out of our house during my childhood, this way she could make extra money while staying home with me. I remember the room with a built up table, mat cutter, dry mount machine, and art work from different artist. I lived for the trips in the station wagon which my friends and I called the Batmobile when we went to the local wholesale frame store. I wish I could remember the name of that place I would spend hours with my mom going through the mat board, frames and art, my young mind expanding listening to the sales woman telling me about Matisse, Renoir, Van Gough, and Dali, seeing the beauty in each line drawn with passion, pain and faith shaping me. My mom created beauty in the time she spent choosing the right color mat, building the frame and cutting the glass, those same hands that touched my face to wipe my tears where the ones that touched others. My mother’s hands held love, but at times that held my butt as it was being spanked. She said to me once that to really see a person you had to look into their eyes, because that was the passage way to the soul. I believe to understand someone journey look at their hands the gentle lines, calluses, bitten nails, wrinkles; it is a map of the all that it has touched. My mom’s hands had a soft feel on the top, but underneath it was rough from all the work she did, her hands raised 5 children, loved a man for 48 years, rocked us to sleep, wiped our cuts and tears. Her hands told of a journey of her unconditional love, faith, looking for beauty in the most unusual places. I have my mom’s hand it was a gift she gave me all those hours watching her hands work.