I used to love to touch my grandmother's hands. They were so thin, the skin was papery and I could see her veins clearly. They were so soft; I would caress them and move the skin through my fingers. Grandma would take off her rings and let me try them on over and over. She was very tolerant of me, and I think knew that it was a loving gesture.
My mother's hands are looking older now, and she wears my grandmother's rings. I am moved by how they fill me with love and a longing to freeze a piece of time so that I can always have them with me. I waited a long time to have kids for various reasons, and Homestead Mama and I have concerns that our kids will have less time with their grandparents than we did.* This saddens me a great deal. Having a yearly portrait of my parent's hands on the babes is one way I pad my memories.
*Sorry, Mom and Dad, for the morbid thoughts. Um, have you been to the gym today? Just a thought.