My Mother's Hands

My mother may bear the name Reyna, Queen, but her hands tell otherwise. I can delineate my hands over the scars lining her hands like rivers on a map. I try to count them, recalling the story of each cut. Here is where thirty years ago she fell up the stairs while carrying bottles and the fragments of glass imbedded themselves into her flesh. Here are more scars resulting from glass, this time when she fell from a scooter. The smaller, shallower cuts, the results of diverted attentions while cooking, make patterns on her hands that I can trace. Her hands are worn, dry and rough from the cleaning, the endless attempts to make sinks and tubs gleaming. I close my eyes when her hands stroke my hair, breathing in the comforting smell of lemon which removes the stench of dried blood or fish. Her hands work magic; destruction and construction. Spinach leaves in all their glory are no more once they meet her hands. They are washed, chopped and cooked, no longer a living green but a darkened delicacy, flavored with garlic and onion. Her hands can knead the stickiest dough into a loaf ready to be baked, or tenderize a piece of beef until the eater believes he is enjoying the finest filet mignon. Her hands prepare rice for five, and serve enough for ten. Her hands have spanked and soothed, scrubbed and shaped. Her hands have wiped away tears, massaged hurts and bandaged wounds. Her hands have braided hair and buttoned up sweaters. Her hands have taught me to express myself, a fist expressing both violence and triumph, a rocking motion showing ambivalence. Her hands spoke of threats and encouragement, exasperation and patience. Her hands can tell the hardships of her life from poverty in childhood to cooking and cleaning for a living. But her hands also show the triumphs of her life, from nurturing sister to glorious mother; a laborer, a fulfiller of the American dream.