My Mothers Hands
One evening, my mother called me into the kitchen when she was preparing supper. I saw blood dripping from her cut finger. I immediately bandaged her, and it was then that I noticed my mother’s hands——the hands, which had brought up three children.
Her hands like the dry bark of an old oak tree, wrinkled, rough and hard. I could not believe that they were the hands of a lady in the early thirties. They looked like the hands of a woodsman.
I knelt beside her and usked her how her hands got like that. She told me that it was the fault of the war. When the Japanese invaded our city, she and father fled inland. They were wretched with no money, no job, no friends. Mother had to do all kinds of hard work: washing, knitting, and sewing. Yet deuth was ulways hovering over them. The surrender made mother and father end their long suffering.
After mother finished her story, I had a mixed feeling that I could hardly control my tears from falling. I hated the Japanese invaders. I hated war. But on the other hand, I liked my mother all the more. I kissed her hands with u deep feeling.
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