I have her hands.
It’s why it was so easy for her to teach me to cook. No measuring, just cupped palms holding dried herbs.
I never got her meatballs quite right. I have the hands but never mastered the pressure, the rolling, the bringing together of all the pieces into perfect spheres.
It’s too late now. I watched her do it fifteen times, but I think I needed sixteen. I’d give anything for sixteen.
I stopped at the spice cabinet last night, after the call. I filled my cupped palms with oregano, thyme, sweet dried basil. I stepped outside, held my hands up, and let the breeze carry the tiny leaves out into the garden, onto the spiked spring leaves of the day-lilies.
Goodbye, Mom. I’ll try to do good with my hands. Your hands. I love you.