My mother's hands hold her cup of coffee. Those hands marked by time, by experiences. The wrinkles that map her face and hands are an invoice of every moment lived, of every smile and every tear.

With those hands she held many pencils between little hands that she guided to teach her students to write. They also held my little hands tightly to cross the street and to get to the park.

How many times those hands marked by time prepared my food and my delicious brewed coffee. Those hands taught me to prepare my food and to make the best coffee, the one made with love.

Those hands took care of me when I got sick, picked me up when I fell, cleaned me and healed my knees. That advice I asked for and the advice I didn't ask for and didn't accept as well. Then I realized that the advice I didn't ask for was the right way to go.

Those tender hands that received the wildflowers I picked along the way and that she treasured as if they were costly. The same soft hands that were worn out with all the household chores like washing and ironing.

Those hands that stroked my hair to lull me to sleep. The ones that received my grades in school and felt proud of me.

Today those hands are no longer the same as when I was little, they have changed, aged and now have what is called "the experience of life".

The important thing is that those beautiful hands are still here and I am happy and grateful for that. For being able to enjoy their brew coffee and for being able to see and hug my mother every morning.

This is a small tribute to all coffee-loving mothers, especially to the mother who gave me life. Blessings to all on this and every day of the year.