My mother’s hands.

I look down and am surprised to see

my mother’s hands.

I am not looking at my mother when I see my face in the mirror,

though sometimes I see a certain look in the eyes.

But my hands …!

I struggle with the image of ageing that my body conveys to me and to the world

knowing intimately the instinctive judgement

that labels me as irrelevant to the workplace, to entrepreneurship.

Why are you not travelling, volunteering, making scones and biscuits for all and sundry and DOTING?

Strange that the word doting and dotage are so similar

one signifying extreme love and pride and nurturing, the other feeble minded reduction in abilities.

And yet

now, as I see my mother’s hands there,

before my eyes,

I remember

the last time I saw those hands,

there

before my eyes

relaxed in a sleep that was permanent

heart-seeringly,

frighteningly,

beautifully

permanent.

In that moment, as I was coming to terms with her death,

I saw those hands as they had been in life;

busy

competent

but made of love

always love

nurturing, caring

and love.

And I see,

then,

a new instinctive judgement label,

— that says

“love”

as a way to be, and to be seen to be.

If I am to be the wise woman I have thought to be

then that wisdom

is … just is … love.