My Mother's Hands

At some point in my adult life, I recognized the scent that I will always associate with my mother. I was cutting vegetables for dinner, and even after washing, the smell of chopped onion and celery clung to my skin. I was immediately taken back to the thousand of times that I breathed in that scent, as she adjusted my collar, or brushed my hair.

I love that smell.

Maybe for some people, the scent of their mothers is a certain perfume, but for me it is the gift that she provided for her children as we grew, the meals that we only really appreciated as we ventured into other peoples' homes and tasted what they had for supper.

My mother's early childhood was spent in a prison camp, where no babies under the age of two survived, and where all who lived there experienced starvation. She takes food seriously, and she passes on the gift of hospitality and love through meals.

I love that smell.