Ten Fingers. Ten Toes.

It was inevitable. Everyone in my family has them. I was genetically destined to inherit the short, stubby fingers and the wide, fat feet of those who came before me. It was a running joke in the family. ‘Flintstone feet’ we called them. And as a five year-old child, I can remember wishing that my hands would someday develop into long, graceful fingers with perfectly shaped nails. But it was my feet that bothered me the most. They were so wide that they could only fit comfortably in shoes made for little boys, one size too big. You see, what my tootsies make up for in width, they lack in length. This nixed any capability I had to wear the jelly sandals I so coveted as a child.

Throughout my adolescence, I never failed to point out my distaste for the feet that I have been doomed to lug around. I would wrap them up tightly with strips of material in order to make them skinnier, or at the very least, prevent them from getting wider. When my mom noticed this for the first time she questioned me about the odd footwear I had donned. When I told her of my intentions I remember seeing a flicker of sadness flash in her eyes before she informed me I should be glad to have all my fingers and toes and then she went about her business. I couldn’t understand why I had made her sad. Why would anyone want to walk around with feet like mine?

In the summer of 2007, I flew out to visit some relatives from my mom’s side of the family in California. I spent five wonderful days there and on the last night we had a small get-together to spend my last night there as a group, as a family. We all sat around in the backyard, barefoot, soaking up the warm, California evening talking, laughing, crying, and simply spending some long overdue time with each other. While the conversations flowed, I sat silently for a moment to look at the special people around me. I looked for similarities in our features. The one thing we all had in common was our feet. This was the first moment in my life that I had ever felt a sense of pride for my fat, wide appendages.

The following November, my mom was hospitalized when the cancer that had seized the last two years of her life, took a turn for the worst. On one particularly late night, I sat next to her hospital bed holding her hand. It was just the two of us. Her temperature was high so she was covered her in a light-weight blanket. Her feet were uncovered, exposing a fresh pedicure and a simple anklet. My mind wandered from her respirations per minute to her physical features. We had the same chin, the same nose, the same hands, the same feet. And while she appeared thin and frail, her feet still had that short, wide shape that notoriously runs in our family.

It didn’t occur to me at that moment but now that I look back and continue to seek out anything to provoke memories of her and her life – movie ticket stubs, journals, jewelry – I’ve realized that one of the best things my mom left behind are the her traits. I’ve come to love the fact that she and I have the same nose, chin, and hands. I love the fact that we have the same Flintstone feet. She gave them to me. And I am reminded every day that a little piece of her lives on with me.