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Rated: E · Non-fiction · Family · #2295291
Looking at my hands, I think of my mother's.
I look at my hands and see age cracked on the surface. It has spilled over the backs, nestled in the skin of my knuckles, and roughed up my palms. I think of the 29 years I took lotion for granted, never enough time or money to spend on the routine, and accept that these past 4 years of use won't repair the damage. Damage that speaks of necessity, etchings on the skin from the grind of two jobs. I remember saying once that it's not an option for me to never pay my bills. I went without so that I had a place to live and transportation to work. And I only had me to worry about.

I look at my hands and see my mother's, softened with age. The lines of work deep and unforgiving, like those that forced us apart over the years. I think of the years I took her for granted, of her never having enough time to spend with us kids, and accept that I can choose to have a relationship now to mend the damage. Damage that speaks of necessity, etchings on the heart from the grind of one parent. I remember there was never a time she didn't have a job, always finding a way to pay the bills. Us kids were all she ever thought about.
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