“I’ve got my mother’s hands” she said, disappointment etching her voice.
I looked down at my own hands; conducting a close study of my own appendages. Square nail beds that produced boxy nails, impossible to grow out. Thick knuckles on thick fingers; not masculine, but certainly never to be labelled dainty. Small white blip of a birthmark on the bend of my right thumb. What I wonder about most are my feet. The strange nub that grows on the big toe, the knuckle that won’t bend.
My mother broke through my reverie, “Got Gram’s feet too. Humid days they swell up like watermelons. Looks terrible.”
The shape of hands and feet, the little things that individually make up a person, those details are not discussed on adoption papers. Neatly typed backstories that list big health concerns; Cancer, Heart Disease, Diabetes, those they talk about. Familial longevity they talk about. Religious affiliations they talk about. Crooked toes are not talked about. Crooked toes and thick fingers are deemed unimportant.
Except that they are, they are important if you don’t know, if you have no one to ask. To anyone that has nothing more than a yellowed package of paper to explain how they came to be, crooked toes can be the biggest deal of all.
I looked over at my daughter, her high chair pulled up to the table where we sat. Her little hands, plump and unmarred, grasping with effort at the blueberries lined up on the tray. So far, no sign of my unfortunate husky hands on her.
If they show up, at least she’ll know where to lay blame.
I listened to my mom tell a familiar story about Grandma, how when I was very little I would tease her about her “grandma skin” the looseflesh that descended from her underarms that I noticed when she hugged me. Another fear of my mother’s, the descent of skin over time.
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