My mom had the silkiest hands.
Throughout my childhood, I remember there always being a short, milky white jar with a pink top and Johnson’s Baby Cream label on the nightstand next to her bed. I suppose that’s the particular lotion she got used to having around after caring for all those cute little baby bottoms of her nine children over the years.
At night, after a hard day’s work, she’d change into a nightgown, climb into bed, and read a chapter or two in a book. Then I imagine that before she turned off the lamp, she reached for the jar and scooped out a nickel-size clump of the thick mixture, massaging it between her palms and knuckles and up to her fingertips, perhaps while reflecting on the day with a smile or deep exhale.
