Loly Ledesma Sanchez
My mom always told me how ugly her hands were. How her fingers were too thick, her palms too calloused, her skin too veiny, and her hands too wrinkly. Sometimes she’d sit and stare at her hands, looking at them from her palm to her nails. Her eyes seemed indifferent, but I knew how she felt. She hated her hands. But I never understood why. These were the hands that gave me life.
My mom worked as a housekeeper, drenching her hands in hard detergent that would wash away her youth. The prickling of the scrub creates scars as she cleanses each dish. The hardwood she’d grip onto while mopping the floor created weathered shields. The sun kisses her hands each day.
Each time she told of how ugly her hands were, I simply shook my head and said, “No, Mom… they’re not ugly.”
She’d then look at me with uncertainty, doubting that I truly believed what I said. I just gave a reassuring smile back. I was too afraid to say more, I remained silent, afraid to articulate the depth of my feelings and risk further doubt clouding her mind.
How can I tell her that the callousness of her palms ensured that when I placed mine in hers, it would mean she would never let me go? How can I tell her that I wish I could engrave the prints of her hand onto my skin so that I can always feel her touch? How can I tell her that each day, as she raises her hand and places it on my forehead, I wish I would never forget her warmth? How can I say such things, when they were simply hands? How could I convey the profound significance her hands held in my life? How could I express that her touch, weathered by hard work, was the very essence of comfort to me?
It was because, for a simple pair of hands, I had never felt so loved before in my life. It was more than just hands; it was a lifetime of sacrifices and love, woven into every callus and crease. Despite the harshness my mother’s hands went through, she never forgot how to hold others with care. The way she runs her hands through my hair to calm my mind. How she’d rhythmically pat my back to soothe my heartbeat. How she’d wipe my tears to dry my eyes. This kind of love transcends words; it’s a language of touch, a symphony of gestures that speak volumes when words fail. And it’s a love I cherish, a love beyond speech.
Happy Mother’s day, Nanay.
