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      I remember her hands the most.

      There on that day, under the harsh glow of the hospital lights, her hands had been so small and frail in mine that I almost couldn't recognise them.

      Those hands used to pick me up when I fell, brush me off and put a salve to all my grievous boyhood wounds. I watched those same hands stop a wild charging animal, radiating courage and power while my father and I hid in the car. Those hands held others, gripping tight as teardrops stained them or shook with fright. No person was ever left on their own around her. If they were in need of help or friendship, those hands would descend to uplift them with kindness and strength.

      The wasted hands held tight in mine once guided me through the world, showing me things not as they were, but as the glowing future we could build together. They showed me how to cook and to clean, that I should not be ashamed to share the load society said was beneath me. Those same hands pointed to the women in my family tree, exalting the men who weren't ashamed to share their glory with them.

      Her hands admonished and chided me often, slapping me soundly when I turned undeserving anger on those who never could raise their own. Those hands taught and instructed me, pointing out the terror I could inflict if I chose to walk the well worn-paths instead of the unblazed trails she wanted me to tread.

    Those hands turned cold too soon, gripped by a cruel darkness that tore through her and eventually extinguished her light. I remember feeling my own hands weaken as her fingers closed around mine for the last time, looking into her eyes as they wordlessly begged me to remember everything she had taught. My world got all the colder when she left it, and I was certain I would never feel that warmth ever again.

      But now my heart burns as a tiny hand closes around mine, clenched tight with the wonder and questions of youth. She is new and untested, unprepared to face down all the fury that opposes her.

      She will never meet those hands that shaped me, but she will know them well. She will listen to my tales and actions, but she will hear the power and kindness that flows through her veins. And just like the hands that shaped my world she will reach out to leave her mark on countless others, guided by the touch of a woman who broke no barriers nor enlightened any mind past mine, but still carried the cause for all those who came after.

      And all because I choose to remember those hands that shaped my world.

Description

      I remember her hands the most.

      There on that day, under the harsh glow of the hospital lights, her hands had been so small and frail in mine that I almost couldn't recognise them.

      Those hands used to pick me up when I fell, brush me off and put a salve to all my grievous boyhood wounds. I watched those same hands stop a wild charging animal, radiating courage and power while my father and I hid in the car. Those hands held others, gripping tight as teardrops stained them or shook with fright. No person was ever left on their own around her. If they were in need of help or friendship, those hands would descend to uplift them with kindness and strength.

      The wasted hands held tight in mine once guided me through the world, showing me things not as they were, but as the glowing future we could build together. They showed me how to cook and to clean, that I should not be ashamed to share the load society said was beneath me. Those same hands pointed to the women in my family tree, exalting the men who weren't ashamed to share their glory with them.

      Her hands admonished and chided me often, slapping me soundly when I turned undeserving anger on those who never could raise their own. Those hands taught and instructed me, pointing out the terror I could inflict if I chose to walk the well worn-paths instead of the unblazed trails she wanted me to tread.

    Those hands turned cold too soon, gripped by a cruel darkness that tore through her and eventually extinguished her light. I remember feeling my own hands weaken as her fingers closed around mine for the last time, looking into her eyes as they wordlessly begged me to remember everything she had taught. My world got all the colder when she left it, and I was certain I would never feel that warmth ever again.

      But now my heart burns as a tiny hand closes around mine, clenched tight with the wonder and questions of youth. She is new and untested, unprepared to face down all the fury that opposes her.

      She will never meet those hands that shaped me, but she will know them well. She will listen to my tales and actions, but she will hear the power and kindness that flows through her veins. And just like the hands that shaped my world she will reach out to leave her mark on countless others, guided by the touch of a woman who broke no barriers nor enlightened any mind past mine, but still carried the cause for all those who came after.

      And all because I choose to remember those hands that shaped my world.