Hands
Four generations of hands intertwined with love and memory. I miss these hands—the chubby little ones that have grown and the delicate older hands that have since moved on. Every hand holds a story in its wrinkles, scars, freckles, and veins. A loving hand needs no words; it speaks through acts of kindness and quiet compassion.
My nonna’s hands. I would give anything to feel them on my back as she sang me to sleep during those warm summer nights of my childhood. I watched her cupped palms shape the most perfect polpette time and again. With those hands she taught me how to touch ingredients, how to respect food, and how to make love visible through work. Her hands instructed without needing speech; they taught me patience, care, and the rituals that shaped our family.
My mamma’s hands. Strong as a bear and gentle as a butterfly. They embody grit, tireless work, fierce determination, and an ocean of selfless love. These are the hands that brought me into the world and baptized my newborn soul in our Sardinian sea. I watched her hands create recipes, feed our table, and nurture everyone around her. In my darkest moments her hands held me; today they continue to lift me as I move through life.
These are my mother’s hands.
My hands. (This is a hard one for me to write.) My hands are growing, creating, sharing, teaching, loving, and feeling every day. They are vulnerable but driven by determination and purpose. I have fought inner battles with these hands and prayed for miracles. They wipe tears from my students and my children, offer comfort, and reach out to touch lives. I long to connect, to show people they are seen, loved, and valued. These hands are at the start of what I hope will be a lifetime of giving.
These are my hands.
My son’s hands. Chubby, soft, curious, mischievous—hands full of possibility. They belong to our future, a future that time will reveal. I hold them and pray for their safety many times a day. I teach these hands what it means to act with kindness, compassion, patience, dedication, and loyalty. I hope every touch they make will be an expression of love and respect for all.
These are my son’s hands.
What memories do you have of loving hands? Share with me. Share with us.
Sometimes hands fail to show love. That sorrow is hard to bear. When hands hurt, they misuse a precious gift—the ability to create, care, and transform the world. If this piece touches anyone who has been hurt, I am deeply sorry.
Baci,
Elena