The Essence of Us

My mother and I have strikingly similar hands.

Compact. Deceivingly delicate. Nearly identical palm lines. Senior year of college, as part of an Intermediate Photography class, I took a black and white portrait of my mother’s and my hands, palms up, side-by-side. I recall getting a B. I should have known better than to think I could capture – with my intermediate shooting skills, my 21 year-old unmerited bravado and a dusty lens – the essence of us.

My mother and I have strikingly similar hands.

Hers are more weathered by age and decades of dishwashing, dirt digging, diaper-changing domesticity. I know she looks at her hands and is saddened and scared by how increasingly old and frail they have become. Mine have distinguishing traits as well. My right palm has a freckle at its epicenter. My right hand has a knuckle that is permanently disfigured from one of many incidents I wish I could take back. It is my body’s visible daily reminder to me that it will always forgive me, but cannot so easily let me forget.

My mother and I have strikingly similar hands.

There was a period of time when she could not look me in the eyes for fear of locking eyes with a gaze from a woman different than the daughter she thought she had raised. A woman who did not want to walk a conventional path. A woman who “feared men” and “loved only herself.” I knew that period of time passed when she took my hand one day in a car ride to quiet out the awkwardness in the awkward silence. She held it firmly for the entire half-hour car ride, squeezing it in sequenced pulsations – what I believe as a three count rhythm of an alternating “I love you” and “I am sorry.”

My mother and I have strikingly similar hands.

Over the years, they have written many letters to each other in different languages and from different addresses such as Tokyo, Japan; New York City; Havre de Grace, Maryland; Delray Beach, Florida; and Darien, Connecticut. Over the years, they have been soaked in the salty tears wept to and for one another. They have waved many a “hello” and “goodbye” – both a distant second to “I am always with you.” They have accumulated more lines and scars and worked as ever-constantly as the blood flowing underneath the skin.

My mother and I have strikingly similar hands.

Underneath our skin, our blood is as shared as the evolving essence of us.