I think of the days when she would patiently demonstrate different sewing stitches. I remember just the way she would reach inside her special sewing box and place the thimble on her middle finger. I can see it glistening in the light with each cycle of the needle being pushed through the fabric. I thought then and I think now, how clever her hands are. How lucky I am to be near to those hands.
Her hands are now morphing into her own mothers hands, this comes I guess with the passing of time. One day last year I watched as she clasped those hands together as she captured my sons, her two grandsons in her arms. That's when it struck me that they were no longer the hands of my mother, but the hands of my grandmother. Familiar and unrecognisable all at once, like so many parts of our intertwined life. Part of me begrudgingly gives up the old hands, recognising that I cannot keep them forever, not on this earth anyway although I am sure they are buried deep within my memory forever more. Part of me looks to my own signs, my own history, my own hands and I see some small traces of her. Right there in my hands. Right there as I look down upon them. I look and I stare. I keep looking and as I do I feel them changing, even in that moment. Changing forever, just like her and I, forever changing, forever intertwined.