The other morning, as I was organizing my daily allotment of herbal supplements I'm taking to support this diet, my mother's hands flashed before me. This happens from time to time, and it is always a bit spooky when it does.

I remember my mother's hands so well. They were small, squarish. She wore a simple wedding band on her ring finger on her left hand, and her Victoria Hospital graduation ring on her right hand ring finger. She was always so proud of being a "Vic Grad". I remember the physicality of her hands, but I also remember the quality of movement, the line of gesture, the repeated actions I witnessed those hands take, especially in the kitchen. Chopping veggies, kneading dough, washing dishes, peeling potatoes. Distributing meds.

Our huge country farmhouse was home to more than my parents, my two brothers and me. Being an RN, and needing to earn some money herself to support us, my Mom was able to house and supervise seven "patients" from the Ontario Hospital in St. Thomas. These were people with various cognitive or emotional challenges who were stable enough to live outside the institution yet not well enough to live completely independently. So there were actually 12 people in total in our house when I was growing up. Each of the "patients" had specific meds on a specific schedule and my mother would stand at the counter every day with all the little bottles and re-organize which pills were to be taken by which person at which time of day. There were a few very specific gestures, key movements, involved in this … a flick of the wrist, the angle of the bottle against the palm of her hand when shuffling a few pills out, lining the bottles up to the left or right to keep them organized. Her movements were tight and efficient.

I wouldn't judge my hands to be "small" but in many other ways I see the shape, the gestures – both inherited. I wear two rings as well, but on different fingers than my mother adorned. But when I move my hands a certain way, there is a flash of metallic light that emphasizes the movement and for a brief instant I see my mother's hands before me – task-oriented, purposeful.

These were the hands that fed me, herded me from one activity to another, chastised me, taught me, comforted me, healed me. I'm on my own now, and have been for a long time, in looking after myself on so many levels. From time to time, it feels like my Mom reveals herself in me to – pardon the pun – lend a hand. It is reassuring and reminds me how much of ourselves we actually are carrying forward from the foundations laid by others.

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