Blogtober 10th

 When I was about 12 or 13 years old my dad bought my mum a ring.

And since I was about 12 or 13 I asked to try it on. I was a skinny wee thing and although mum was very petite her ring was just too big for me. Over the years I repeated the question and waited and waited till it fitted me. The question then changed from "Can I try it ?" to  "Can I borrow it ?"  The answer to that one was always no. Over the years it became a bit of a family joke. Me asking to borrow the ring and mum saying I'd have to wait till she died then I could have it. That doesn't sound very funny but that's just the way it was.

When mum died in 2003 she was just 67 and I was 40. Far too soon and I wasn't ready to be without my mum. I don't suppose we ever are. Despite everything, my dad remembered about the ring and gave it to me just before the funeral. I spent ages just looking at my hand and realised something that I had never seen before. All my life people told me I was the image of my mum. I could never see the resemblance, but what I did see for the first time was that I have my mum's hands. Maybe I only saw it because I was looking for something but even now I sometimes look at my hands and it makes me smile.

She taught me to sew, to knit, to embroider. She taught me to write my name.

It seems fitting that I have her hands.

 I also have my grampa's legs (they don't meet in the middle) but we don't talk about that.