My Mother's Sacrifice

Many of my friends compliment the appearance of my hands, they would tell me that they're unique, beautiful, soft, etc. But when I was a child I would think that there something wrong with them, I thought they are "weird". My aunt told me that my hands look exactly the same as my mother-that was long before she had children.

Last night I was massaging my mother's tired hands, they are rough, thin, scratched, the skin tells a lot of story about suffering, pain and sacrifice but still you can see the beauty they once had. And as my fingers try to ease the pain of my mother's long day work, I realized that being a mother is the hardest role to play in this cruel world.

When we moved in Commonwealth living each single day is a struggle, but somehow my mother find a way to earn money so that we could eat 3 times a day. Almost every morning I would hear the sound of the running water, the "crunchy" sound of the clothes being washed over and over again. And as I watch my mother wash the laundries of our neighbors, I would see her hands being "tortured" and battered but she never mind it, what's all in her mind is the agony would provide our daily needs.

I have witnessed it for long years until this very day. Every night I could see her managing the pain the laundries have brought her. She would put ointment onto those tired hands and try to have a quiet sleep for tomorrow she would do it all over again. All I can do is to massage her hands, and as I see the big difference of our hands I made a promise that I would do the best I can to somehow give her a better life and I don't care if my hands would lose their beauty, that's the least I can do for her sacrifice, and her love.