I have my mother's hands I have my mother’s hands. Sometimes when I paint my nails, I see her clasping each thumb with her index and middle fingers. She holds them tight like a thumb sandwich. “What are you doing, Mom?” I asked the first time I saw her doing this. “Keeping my soul from escaping through the portal,” she told me. Back then, I’m sure I giggled. My mother always had a quirky way about her, but once I began attending after-school play dates at my classmates' home