Of working hands. On the occasion of my mother's 39th birthday.

I have known them all my life.

the hands of an artist. strong hands. well muscled, and always gracefully displayed, her hands have been introduced to the best of the best. mozart, schubert, bach. she has met them all.

these hands have known late nights and early mornings. monotonous repetition and spontaneous, instant, virtuosic creation.

her hands are bold. they are of the earth. they are never cautious to reach out to me and never hesitant to hold on tight.

my mother has strong hands.

were i to trace the lines and indentations that crease her fingers i suspect they would weave an intricate and myriad history of loss and effort. of intensity and despondency. of familiarity and doubt.

but the lines in her hands hold more than their literal derivation in my heart.

of battles fought for me. of prayers whispered daily. of a life created for me.

of ferocious tenacity and faith.

and above all else,

of love.