Hands.

I miss those hands. Those strong, worn, weathered hands. Mine are worn too, but not in the way yours were. Mine are from dry skin and a cold icy winter. Yours are from living. From holding countless pencils, oils, and paint brushes. From countless throwing of pots on the wheel. From strumming your fingers on the guitar, lighting campfires, and paddling down the Hood Canal with your old friends. Your hands hoisted sails and tied knots. Your hands sewed and stitched and made beautiful upon beautiful pieces of art and amazing quilts.
You hands were worn from years of working hard, raising kids, raising a family, holding a job. Your hands held tiny hands and kept them safe. Your hands held small hands kissing away their bumps and bruises. Your hands held growing hands as they grew up needing to hold yours less and less. Your hands held on tight and your hands let go.
I miss your hands, mom.