Beautifully made.

My mom was so beautiful. Even in her last days, less than 100 pounds - her smile shone through. Wrinkled skin, so warm to the touch. I could count her veins. Soft hands; she'd stow away little bottles of name brand lotions for herself. Hands that could heal, hands that lifted in prayer, hands that could comfort. She would stare at her nails, always perfect rounded. Soft, downy hair - like a kitten. Grown in from the chemo. Salt and pepper, pretty. Sometimes she'd get too hot, and her soft hair would glisten. She was so proud of her hair, though. In the days where she felt better she'd run her hands through it and smile. She'd tell me how happy she was to have hair again. Her nose, a small indent from the breathing machine. She'd lost feeling in half of her face. I wanted her nose. Long and straight. Not too large. She threatened to tell my grandma I didn't like mine, since it was a "Gardner nose". Large pores. Brown eyes, so dark, they sometimes looked black. She'd tell me she always wanted light eyes, like her kids. I would tell her brown is my favorite color. Lips that would purse in frustration - a look I grew to know and use myself. Lips that would smile at sweet words from her children's mouth. Lips that would inadvertently curse - and then those lips would laugh when we teased her for using a swear word. Coffee stained teeth. A tongue that would lick her lips in satisfaction after she ate her very last bit of yogurt (fruit on the bottom!).  Her soft, round tummy shrunk over a period of months into a shapeless form. She always had called herself fat. I never saw it. I just saw my mom. When I was a kid, I would lay on her legs, dotted with small blueish purple spider veins. She'd stroke my hair with her soft hands. I'd listen to her tummy gurgle and watch TV. I wish I had more days like that. More days to study her face. To know it. She was beautifully and wonderfully made.