11d • General discussion
My Mothers Hands
As I sit here looking at my hands, I see more than just mine. I see the hands of two beautiful women.
I see my grandmother, Ellen Louise. I see your strength. Your hard work. I see the sun spots from all the countless hours you spent outside planting and tending to your gardens. I see you digging up the backyard just to make me a swimming pool — with a canopy, I might add. I remember you using cow watering cans just to make sure I stayed cool in the summer. I see the pride you carried in these hands with every meal you made for your family, cooking with love every single time.
But I also see the pain you endured. The times you weren’t seen. The times you weren’t heard. The times you were misunderstood. You stayed because that’s what women did. You carried it quietly, and you kept loving anyway.
Then I see the other set of hands — my beautiful mother, Diane Rose. Your strength looked different, but it was just as powerful. You fought the fight, Mom. You never gave up. You never said you couldn’t do something. Even in a wheelchair, you believed you had no boundaries, and you were determined to prove everyone wrong — even the doctors. I watched you fight again and again to beat the odds stacked against you.
Momma, your heart was so big. You cared for everyone, even when people treated you wrong — men and women who saw you as less than. But you never saw yourself that way. Your elegance was more than beauty. It was class, with a little touch of “bougie,” just like you used to say. You always said a woman doesn’t need to show her body to be classy. And if you couldn’t be rich, you could at least look rich. No matter where we lived — even in the roughest projects — you made it a home. You made it ours.
I am so grateful for your wisdom and your guidance. I wish you could see me now — healed, full of love, full of joy. I wish I could sit with both of you just one more time and say thank you. Thank you for the tough love. Thank you for the lessons. Thank you for never giving up on me, even when, in my pain, I told myself stories that you didn’t love me or that you were bad mothers.
I’m sorry I was so blinded, seeing life only through my trauma.
But today, as I look at my hands and see the strength of you two women, I make a choice. The trauma stops with me. I will carry your names as women who had trials they won and trials they lost, but they held their heads high. They pushed forward until they let God lead.
Grandma, I remember your smile and how you loved without conditions.
Momma, I remember watching you fall in love with the greatest man on this earth — a man who loved you wholeheartedly and never missed a beat. The day he passed, I felt peace knowing you were together again.
I love you both so much. And I am so honored I chose you to be my mommas.
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My Mothers Hands
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