My Mother's Hands

My mother's hands could find a fever through a forehead, could tell a melon's ripeness with one knock, could fold a fitted sheet into a shape that made sense— a trick I've never learned and now refuse to google because some knowledge should only travel by hand. Her hands braided my hair with a firmness that said I will not let you go into the world undone. They peeled an orange in one long ribbon, held it up like a small trophy, and I believed, at seven, that this was the most impressive thing a person could do. I still believe it. Her hands are slower now. They shake with the coffee. They pause sometimes mid-task as if the hand forgot what the body was doing. I hold them when we walk— not because she needs it. Because my hands remember being small in hers, and they want to return the fit.