Back on the 13th of June, we were crossing Nebraska, and I was in the passenger seat, reading quietly. I looked down at my hand. It was palm-down on the book I was reading, on the page opposite to the one I was on. I looked at the sterling silver and turquoise rings on my fingers, and I saw my mother's hand. I saw the thin fingers, the narrow hand, the distinct knuckles and short cut nails that appear longer than they really are because of the long, even nail beds. I was suddenly quite painfully aware of my similarity to her, and of her absence from my life.

Looking so much like my mother now has a mixed meaning to me. It is a blessing and a curse.

It is a blessing because I am honored to look so much like such a beautiful, strong woman. Every time I look in the mirror, I am reminded of her, and that is truly a blessing.

It's also a curse because every time I look at my image in a mirror, I see her, and just as I am reminded of her, I am also reminded that she in no longer with me. Every time, even now after three years, I am also reminded of the the sharp pain of losing her.

So I look down at my hand today, and am reminded of the strong, creative, comforting hand of my mother. The hand that cared for me for so many years. The hand that could take a blob of clay dug from deep within the ground, and refine it, pulling the beauty from the muck, and make it into a piece of art.

I remember her mostly from my childhood, when she had her sight, and her strength. When she would spend her afternoons creating things out of clay, or making funky beads out of long strips of paper.

Her mornings belonged to the construction company where she worked for my dad. But her afternoons belonged to her creative spirit. She always wore an apron, whether to really protect her clothing, or merely out of habit, I can't be sure. Her aprons were all cut from same pattern - literally. She sewed all of them herself, and some were cut from some pretty eccentric fabrics.

She always carried a handkerchief in her apron pocket, also out of habit, I think. She could be wearing the oldest, most tattered apron, but she'd have a cute handkerchief with tatted or crocheted lace around the edge.

In retrospect, I think most of those were probably made by my grandmother or great-grandmother. I never realized it then, but I know now that my mother was a very sentimental person. She often had things around her from family members and friends. she had paintings on the walls and sculptures on the end tables that her children made years before, her heart still full of pride every time she looked at them.

That was something always obvious about my mother. she was very proud of her children, and very accepting of us. Sometimes I could tell she wondered about how her life might have been different if she'd made different choices, but I also could always tell she had no regrets. She'd never have considered trading any of us for something different, something easier than marrying a man she really barely knew after only a handful of dates, moving from the city to the strange loneliness of country life far away, raising six children...

But she would sometimes sound wistful when she talked about things like traveling, and about history and science and archaeology. She was fascinated by archaeology and history. Our house was filled with history. There was non-fiction books and magazines in every room. While other households had subscriptions to "Good Housekeeping" and "Vogue", we got "National Geographic", "Smithsonian" and "Scientific American".

Even now, as an adult out on my own, I lean toward non-fiction. It's fact. It's real. It's tangible. And you can't argue with it.

You'd think my mother's love for all things creative and for all things cut-and-dry would be in direct conflict. But she found perfect harmony between them. I suppose because even in creativity, there's a base of history, and of what's "real".

Now back to those rings that started me thinking. They were hers. She wore them the same way I do, and these particular rings she wore often. I'm so thankful to have them, to be able to have a little piece of her that I can have with me. I miss her.