These are hands. Hands that have held a burden I cannot imagine to begin to bear to fathom for over 25 years. Hands that have been cut cooking, burned on the stove, have changed diapers. Held me, my brothers, my sister when we couldn’t sleep. These are hands. They have worn, eroded from their previous beauty, their youth. They gave themselves to me. To us. To our world. Day and night, they supported us when we wavered, when we fell they picked us up, when we cried, they wiped our tears. These are hands. We all have a pair, none more hardworking than our mother’s. Look at your mother’s hands, what do you see? I see struggle. Time passed by, wishes and emotions let go to raise me. Feed me. Support me. I see a soul, given all its got. And giving yet still. Look at your mother’s hands today, and every day. What do you see?