Dear Someday Baby,

The hand in the photo on my blog is your Grammy’s hand (I have no idea if she’ll be your “Grammy” or “Nanny”…I just hope she gets to be a grandmother).  I took the picture on a winter’s day on a beach (edited August 2009: I’ve since changed the main photo at the top of the blog). She and I were walking along, talking about a radio program that made your Grammy so sad…it was about an old man who called the radio host and told him how lonely he was as a senior.  It broke your Grammy’s heart.

Suddenly she stopped, looked down, and picked up a heart rock.  She immediately told me it was a sign – the heart was for the man on the radio – I think his name was Lawrence. 

A heart for Lawrence.  I have the same photo framed and on a wall.  I love looking at her hand as much as I do the rock.  I have always loved her hands.

As  a little girl, I always admired my mother’s hands.  I would marvel at her long, shiney fingernails and would run my own fingers over their smooth finish.  Your Grammy thought it was funny how I would study her hands carefully and tell her how soft they felt.

And now, I am older than she was when I used to touch her soft hands. When I look at my own hands, I see hers.  They are the same.  The same wrinkled pattern on knuckles I memorized back then.  The same veins showing through my skin.  People often tell me I have beautiful fingernails.  They ask if they are real.  I smile and say yes, and thank you.  But I don’t mention what I am actually thinking – that I have the same hands my mother once had.  They wouldn’t understand.