Today, on International Women's Day, I am more and more thankful that I was lucky enough to inherit my mother's hands. Not just the structure, but the expression, the fluidity- and my favorite, the capability. My mother was strong, though she has never given herself the credit she deserved. She grew up one of nine in a catholic household, proving herself resourceful in her high school years by sneaking jeans past her mother's watchful eye. She was a good girl, and in the family tradition, went into the Marine Corps. She stepped on those yellow feet at Parris Island, repelled off the tower, and prepared herself for a military lifestyle. She got it, albeit in a different method- she married my father, and gathered her strength to leave her dream to support his for the following 20 odd years. She raised three kids virtually alone, jumping from base to base and circumstance to circumstance.
At my father's retirement, he granted her the kindness of retiring to Maine to be closer to her family while they helped my grandmother pass. They settled into a little town, that frankly, we all hated. But it was affordable and close. We grew into a house that had a lime green tub and matching sink. And in 2007, my father burnt the happy family to the ashes. My mother gathered her strength again. She mourned, as we all did, but she was the one who had to pick up the remains of her abandoned life and recreate it. Us kids were already preparing for fresh new lives, so we had it easier.
My mom is now happily living in Virginia, with a man who truly loves her and treasures what a gift she is. My mom is not a loud woman, but she is fierce; she is not aggressive but she will not hesitate to keep your damn fork out of her slice of cake, thank you very much. She is giving, kind, forgiving- and so much more. Her hands are not large, but the power she has echoes through them. The fingers that used to dismiss us to our rooms, the quick strokes stirring pasta sauce- each story imprinted on on my memory.
I am not my mom, though I have been discovering her power in my hands. Every time I wave my hands along to a story, or angrily point a clueless driver in the correct manner to make a left turn, her hands are there. My hands are more beaten and scarred from years in kitchens, but they have figured out that stirring method to a T. And, though it may embarrass her to have this revealed, our middle fingers have the exact same reaction speed these days.
So thank you, Mom. You have given me more than I ever asked for and that you will ever know. Tonight, I drink to you, your sacrifices, and all of your future happiness. Happy International Women's Day!
