Palm to palm

I remember in Hants’ Harbour when we first met, the man who is now my husband spoke about my hands. He said they were a woman’s hands, and how he loved that, and although I was not a mother at the time; he said they were a mother’s hands, graceful but worn. Perhaps a little weary. I think of that moment occasionally and it reminds me to be grateful for my age. There is beauty in getting older and its more rugged than the beauty of youth. I would like to extend the time I live now; not go back to a time that was. Now is so precious and fleeting, my children squeal and race past me and when I turn the corner after them I find they are a year older and I instantly regret not cherishing them enough.
On Saturday mornings my son and I cross country ski. I plod along proudly behind him as he politely endures the lessons I signed him up for and as soon as the instructors release him, Remy is off for the one big hill where a few older children have built a series of jumps. I bite my tongue and talk myself down from panic as he races into each jump at full throttle; his four year old body navigating the treacherous landscape with surprising skill. I am terrified and oh so proud… my “mothers” hands clenched in prayer.