Today I kneaded bread and, suddenly, I looked at my hands and thought of hers.
Hers were always doing something: kneading, sewing, pulling weeds, caressing. I remember them covered in flour, with marked veins and the soft skin of work well done. I never saw them fully still.
Sometimes I think we inherit more than features. We inherit gestures. The way of holding a cup, of smoothing a tablecloth, of picking a sprig of rosemary and rubbing it between the fingers. My mother does it just like she did. And I catch myself doing the same.
There is a wisdom in the hands that does not pass through the head. They know when the dough is ready, when a plant needs water, when someone needs you beside them with a hand on their shoulder and no words at all.
I like to think mine are learning from hers, even though she is no longer here. Every time I do something with care, with presence, with that love that goes into the details, it is a little as if I carried her with me.
The bread turned out well. I am sure she would have liked it.