My fingers are draped and swaddled in rough, wrinkled skin. The signs of age are taking their toll, and yet I sit here and stare at them. I examine them as an outsider, much like how I stared at the various hands that took care of me, nourished me, held me, silenced me as I grew up. I look at mine, as they are at this moment, and I can’t help but take a deep breath and recognize my mother in them. Her hands are like mine. I am hers as she is mine and, despite everything, I have her hands. They’re strong, aged, imperfect, and gentle. The crevices scream of hardship and love, both deeply ingrained, yet I can’t help but smile and delight in the fact that I finally share something with her.