Not My Hands

My daughter gathers eggs every day, if possible.  We are working on a chicken coop so right now the eggs could be anywhere, but she always finds them.  She brought some to me and told me to make a cake with her eggs.  So I did.

As I was cracking the eggs in the bowl I noticed my hands.  They were not my hands.  I know what you are thinking, but they were not my mother's hands either.  It was almost surreal looking at my hands as they cracked fresh eggs.  Did they belong to my great grandmother?  Maybe.  She moved her husband and child to Oklahoma to be a farmer.  From what I understand it was her decision.  As you know they spent most of their lives in Comanche where my great grandma had a garden, cattle, chickens and always wore a white lace collar.  She gathered fresh eggs every morning and fed her chickens in the evenings.

Maybe Pearl was helping me make a cake for my family.  Thanks Pearl.

Happy Grandma's Day.

Love,

Territory Mom