My mother when she was a small, weak elderly woman would ask to hold my hand. She would look down at my hands. Hands that never saw a manicure, arthritic hands, hands that worked hard. She would look up to me and say "Your hands are so strong, theses are hands that do work. I love these hands."
My mother had beautiful handwriting before her arthritis ruined her fingers and hands. I found this postcard which she wrote her notes on glaciers many years ago. It was wonderful to find a piece of her so many years after her death. She was a curious person. Always trying to figure out how machines work, or how to fix chipped champagne glasses. She knew that my father was not clever in these ways. She would watch his frustration on not fixing something. She left him alone to his agony. When he walked away from this project. She would sit down and think for abit. She would turn the item over, look at all the pieces. Then she would fix it. Put it away and days later, My father would be shocked to see it fixed and he would thank her. She would smile and know she saved the day for him and did not embrasse him. She was a kind and loving wife.
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