I remember my Dad's hands...he passed away when I was 17....sometimes it's hard to recall his voice....but I can still see his hands. They were strong, rough, hard working, rugged hands.
Mum had rough hands too. I held those hands two years ago....just before she left us forever.
They were hands that had worked hard all their life. They were hands that started work at four years of age in her family's Cheese Factory. They were hands that took pride in their home and very diligently kept things spick and span.
They were hands that went to work when the family needed money......in the only type of job they knew how to do....as a cleaner at the local school.
Those hands were never still, if they weren't working they were gardening or mixing up a cake, or beating cream or kneading dough. If she was resting they were knitting...click clack....never still. As they aged and she slowed down they were still busy...even if it was only doing crosswords.
Those hands were never idle.
In a tragic irony...when ill health took hold....and work was beyond her...those hands still moved....but with a Parkinson's tremor.
As I searched for a picture which showed my Mum's hands....I recalled a drawing I did many years ago when I was still at school. I'm glad I kept it.
The hands of both my parents told their stories...the story of two lives, hard lives, well lived.
Recently Hubby put a photo up on Facebook....of me.
My Sister called me..."I looked at that photo and I thought 'Oh it's Mum's hands'"
I'm lucky....my hands will never know hard work like hers did....but it's nice to know I have a little piece of Mum with me always.