My Mother's Hands

There are times, when I am driving, that I see my mother's hands on the steering wheel. The way my fingers touch lightly on the beige vinyl and the way they skim over the surface when turning. It is during these times that I am conscious of sitting up straighter and imagine that I carry the same expression as she. I am my mother's daughter. The same but different. My hands have noticibly thicker skin. As do I. Her skin is soft and fair. Mine is rough and ruddy. Her fingers are long and delicately tapered. Delicate is not a good adjective to describe my digits. My fingers are short although, to their credit, not quite squat. My thumbs, however, are stumpy. Always have been. I've made up stories over the years to explain them to others. Things like 'my dad used to tie me up outside by my thumbs and one night he tied too tightly and I lost circulation and had to have the tips removed.' Sometimes these stories were believed. A psychic once told me that stumpy thumbs were a sign of a quick temper. I never really noticed having a temper until I was told this. When I was younger, I thought that my thumbs would grow as I did. I would wake up one morning with boobs and grown up thumbs. One day I would have my mother's thumbs. This didn't happen. When I played guitar (I used to play a lot...not so much if at all anymore...although I think about it occasionally...like chelsea hotel) I used to love watching my hands. When I played, my hands were mine. No one elses. I would be amazed while watching them that they seemed to know so much that I didn't--where the notes were, how strong or how lightly to pluck to achieve that 'just right' nuance, the minimum amount of pressure necessary to hold down a string before buzzing would occur. I wonder if my hands still hold this memory? This memory along with the memory of my mother's hands.