My Mother’s Hands
Moms hands妈妈的手
Moms hands妈妈的手作者：佚名来源：《疯狂英语·新策略》2022年第05期Night after night， Mom came to tuck me in， even long after my childhood years. Following her long?standing custom， shed lean down pushing my hair out of the way and then kiss my forehead.I dont remember when it first started annoying me. Finally， one night， I shouted out at her，“Dont do that anymore—your hands are too rough！” She didnt say anything in reply.Well， years have passed， and Im not a little girl anymore. Mom is in her mid⁃seventies. One time， it was Mothers Day and I found myself drawn next door to spend the night with my mom.As I slept in the bedroom of my youth， a familiar hand hesitantly ran across my face. Then a kiss， ever so gently， touched my brow. In my memory， for the thousandth time， I recalled the complaint of my young voice. Catching Moms hand in my hands， I blurted out how sorry I was for that night. But Mom didnt know what I was talking about. She had forgotten and forgiven long ago.That night， I fell asleep with a new appreciation for my gentle mother and her caring hands.每天夜里，母亲总是在我入睡之后，为我掖好被子，然后俯下身子，拨开我的头发，亲吻我的前额。
母亲教我画画英语作文初一
母亲教我画画英语作文初一From the earliest days I can remember, my mother's hands were always covered in a kaleidoscope of colors. The smell of oil paint was as common in our home as the scent of jasmine in the spring. She was an artist, not of fame or fortune, but of passion and patience. Her canvas was her sanctuary, and her brushes were her companions. It was in this world of hers that I took my first steps, not just in walking, but in art, in seeing, in expressing.I was seven when she first set a brush in my hand. It was a small, insignificant thing with bristles that had seen better days. But to me, it was a magic wand ready to cast spells in color. "Paint what you feel," she said, her voice a soft melody that danced with the afternoon light filtering through our living room window. I remember staring at the blank canvas, feeling the weight of possibility. My little heart was a storm of emotions I couldn't name, but my mother taught me that day that I didn't need words to express them.She guided my hand, not directing but suggesting strokes as we painted a garden. "See how the green can be brighter here, where the sun touches the leaves?" she would say, and I would watch in awe as the scene came to life under her tutelage. It wasn't just about replicating what was in front of us; it was about capturing its essence, its soul. "Every color has a mood, a temperature, a voice," she explained. "Listen to them, converse with them, and they will teach you their secrets."As the years passed, our roles slowly shifted. I grew bolder in my strokes, more confident in my palette. My mother became less of a teacher and more of an observer, her pride in her eyes more vibrant than any pigment we owned. We would spend hours in silence, communicating only through the language of art. Our conversations were a symphony of colors, a dialogue of imagination.Art became my voice when words failed me. Through every hardship, every joy, every milestone, my brushes were there, painting the story of my life. My mother showed me that art isn't just about creating beauty; it's about finding it within yourself, in the depths of your soul, in the echoes of your heart.Now, as I stand before my own canvas, with my own child's hand in mine, I pass on the legacy my mother gifted me. "Paint what you feel," I whisper, and the cycle continues, a timeless dance of mother, child, and art. For in every stroke, every hue, every canvas we share, we are not just painting pictures; we are painting memories, we are painting love, we are painting life itself.And so, the lessons my mother taught me are not confined to the edges of a canvas. They are etched into the very fabric of who I am. Patience, passion, expression—these are the tools she gave me, tools that shape more than just art. They shape dreams, they shape futures, they shape the very essence of our being.In the end, art is more than a subject to be mastered; it is a journey to be lived. It is a journey I began with my mother's hand in mine, and one I continue with my child's hand in mine. It is a journey of love, of discovery, of endless possibility. And for that, I am forever grateful to the woman who first handed me a brush and showed me the world in a spectrum of colors. 。
关于描写母亲的双手的英语作文
关于描写母亲的双手的英语作文妈妈的手是这汉斯杰上待我最温柔的手。
以下是xx为大家收集的一篇关于描写母亲的双手的英语作文。
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Night after night, she came to tuck me in, even long after my childhood years. Following her longstanding custom, she'd lean down and push my long hair out of the way, then kiss my forehead.I don't remember when it first started annoying me —— her hands pushing my hair that way. But it did annoy me, for they felt work-worn and rough against my young skin. Finally, one night, I lashed out at her: "Don't do that anymore —— your hands are too rough!" She didn't say anything in reply. But never again did my mother close out my day with that familiar expression of her love. Lying awake long afterward, my words haunted me. But pride stifled my conscience, and I didn't tell her I was sorry.Time after time, with the passing years, my thoughts returned to that night. By then I missed mymother's hands, missed her goodnight kiss upon my forehead. Sometimes the incident seemed very close, sometimes far away. But always it lurked, hauntingly, in the back of my mind.Well, the years have passed, and I'm not a little girl anymore. Mom is in her mid-seventies, and those hands I once thought to be so rough are still doing things for me and my family. She's been our doctor, reaching into a medicine cabinet for the remedy to calm a young girl's stomach or soothe a boy's scraped knee. She cooks the best fried chicken in the world…… gets stains out of blue jeans like I never could……and still insists on dishing out ice cream at any hour of the day or night.Through the years, my mother's hands have put in countless hours of toil, and most of hers were before automatic washers!Now, my own children are grown and gone. Mom no longer has Dad, and on special occasions, I find myself drawn next door to spend the night with her. So it was that late on Thanksgiving Eve, as I drifted into sleep in the bedroom of my youth, a familiar hand hesitantlystole across my face to brush the hair from my forehead. Then a kiss, ever so gently, touched my brow.In my memory, for the thousandth time, I recalled the night my surly young voice complained: "Don't do that anymore —— your hands are too rough!" Catching Mom's hand in hand, I blurted out how sorry I was for that night. I thought she'd remember, as I did. But Mom didn't know what I was talking about. She had forgotten —— and forgiven —— long ago.That night, I fell asleep with a new appreciation for my gentle mother and her caring hands. And the guilt I had carried around for so long was nowhere to be found.。
《妈妈的手》小升初满分英语作文
Mom's handsI was born in an ordinary family and grew up under the love and care of my mother. Just like a seed, it drifts in the wind and falls in a corner of the world. Few people know about it, but under the care of Mother Earth, it gradually takes root and sprouts. All mothers in the world are like this. For their children, they spare no effort, silently dedicate themselves, and do not reserve. Especially the mother's dexterous hands, which bring endless joy and happiness to our family. Mom, your love and dedication will always be remembered in my heart. Here, I want to deeply praise your ordinary and great hands.My mother's hands are not big, but she shoulders the responsibility of the whole family. Every day, she always gets up early and works ha rd, almost without a moment's rest. In order to make life more comfortable, in addition to finishing the farm work in the field, my mother also goes to the construction site to work and earn money. Under the hot sun, she sweats profusely and works tirelessly. As time flies, my mother's originally delicate hands have become increasingly rough, and a thick layer of calluses has also been worn on her palms. In addition, excessive fatigue has also made her suffer from illness, and she has no choice but to recuperate at home. However, even at home, my mother can't sit still, always busy, doing all kinds of housework.My mother's hands are hardworking and clever. I can wear brand new and comfortable shoes all year round. Although the shoes made by my mother are not as fashionable and beautiful as the leather shoes worn by my classmates, they are comfortable and durable. Whenever we go out together, the shoes of other classmates are either broken or torn, but my shoes are always brand new and never embarrass me. All this is due to my mother's skillful hands. I am full of gratitude and love for my mother's craftsmanship.I remember one winter, it was almost winter, but my father's salary had not been paid yet, and my family could not afford to buy me gloves, so my hands had to endure the cold. Although my mother did not complain, I knew she must be very distressed. One night, I was awakened by a clanging sound. It turned out that my mother was making gloves for me at the sewing machine. At that moment, my tears burst out and blurred my eyes. I quietly got up and approached gently, but accidentally knocked off the shovel on the windowsill. My mother looked up, her eyes were full of bloodshot. She smiled and said to me: "It's getting late, go to bed quickly, you have to go to school tomorrow!" The next day, I put on the warmest and most beautiful gloves in my life. Thank you, mother, thank you for her omnipotent hands!Now, I have grown up, left home and started my own life. But whenever I think of my mother's hands, my heart is filled with warmth and strength. They taught me hard work and perseverance, and made me understand gratitude and cherishment. My mother's hands are the most precious wealth in my life. They witness the greatness of maternal love and also explain the meaning of dedication. In the days to come, I will use my hands to strive to create a better life, repay my mother's kindness in raising me, and make her proud of me.。
Mother's Hands母亲的手
Mother's Hands母亲的手As teenagers we live in a different world from our mothers, a world where mothers hang out on the peripheries. Of course, almost everyone has one; they are unavoidable annoyances.Today, as I approach that edge, as I am the one with the teenage daughter, I look at my mother through different eyes. And I sometimes wish I could halt the years and stop her from growing older, stop her from repeating herself.We sit at my kitchen table as the sun designs a mosaic of light on the the floor. My daughter, Anna, sits next to my mother.“When is Rick going to be here?” my mother asks,referring to my husband.“I don't know, Mom,”I answer patiently.“He’ll be herefor dinner.”I sigh and get up from the table. This is at least the tenthtime she has asked that question in as many minutes.While my mother and daughter play Monopoly, I busy myself making a salad.“Don't put in any onions,” Mom says.“You know howDaddy hates onions.”“Yes, Mom,”I answer, shoving the scallions back intothe fridge.I scrub off a carrot and chop it into bite-size pieces.I thrust the knife into the carrot with more force than is necessary. A slice falls onto the floor.“Don't put any onions in the salad,” she reminds me.“You know how Daddy hates onions.”This time I can't answer.I just keep cutting, chopping, tearing. If only I couldchop away the years, shred the age from my mother's face and hands.My mother had been beautiful. She still is. In fact, mymother is still everything she has been, just a bit forgetful. I try to convince myself that's all that it is, and if she really concentrated, she would not repeat herself so much. There isn't anything wrong with her.I cut off the end of the cucumber and ru b it against thestalk to take away the bitterness. The white juice oozes out the sides. Wouldn't it be nice if all unpleasant situations could be so easily remedied? Cut and rub. This is a trick I have learned from my mother, along with a trillion other things: cooking, sewing , dating, laughing, thinking. I learned how to grow up. I learned the art of sorting through emotions.And I learned that when my mother was around, I never had to be afraid.So why am I afraid now?I study my mother's hands. Her nails are no longer abright red, but painteda light pink, almost no color at all. And as I stare at them, I realize I am no longer looking at those hands but feeling them as they shaped my youth. Hands that packed a thousand lunches and wiped a million tears off my cheeks. Hands that tucked confidence into each day of my life.I turn away and throw the cucumber into the bowl.And then it hits me. My hands have grown into those of my mother's.Hands that have cooked uneaten meals, held my owndaughter's frightenedfingers on the first day of school and dried tears off her face.I grow lighthearted . I can feel my mother kiss megoodnight, check to see if the window is locked, then blow another kiss from the doorway. Then I am my mother, blowing that same kiss to Anna off that same palm.Outside everything is still. Shadows fall among the trees, shaped like pieces of a puzzle.Someday my daughter will be standing in my place, and I will rest where my mother now sits.Will I remember then how it felt to be both mother anddaughter? Will I ask the same question too many times?I walk over and sit down between my mother and her granddaughter.“Where is Rick?”my mother asks, resting her hand onthe table next to mine. The space between us is smaller than when I was a teenager, barely visible at all.And in that instant I know she remembers. She mayrepeat herself a little too much. But she remembers.“He’ll be here,”I answer with a smile. ['instənt] adj.My mother smiles back, one of those grins where thedimple takes over the shape of her face, resembling my daughter.Then she lets her shoulders relax, picks up the dice. 酒窝；涟漪；浅口十几岁的孩子与母亲生活在截然不同的两个世界里，他的世界由母亲监控着。
母亲的手(My Mothers Hands)
母亲的手(My MothersHands)One evening, my mother called me into the kitchen when she was preparing supper. I saw blood dripping from her cut finger. I immediately bandaged her, and it was then that I noticed my mother‘s hands——the hands, which had brought up three children.Her hands like the dry bark of an old oak tree, wrinkled, rough and hard. I could not believe that they were the hands of a lady in the early thirties. They looked like the hands of a knelt beside her and usked her how her hands got like that. She told me that it was the fault of the war. When the Japanese invaded our city, she and father fled inland. They were wretched with no money, no job, no friends. Mother had to do allkinds of hard work: washing, knitting, and sewing. Yet deuth was ulways hovering over them. The surrender made mother and father end their long suffering.After mother finished her story, I had a mixed feeling that I could hardly control my tears from falling. I hated the Japanese invaders. I hated war. But on the other hand, I liked my mother all the more. I kissed her hands with u deep feeling.。
从《游子吟》与《Mother's Hands》的对比中看中西诗歌比较
从《游子吟》与《mother’s hands》的对比中看中西诗歌比较《游子吟》是中国唐朝诗人孟郊的经典之作，成功展现了至今仍广为流传的“慈母原型”和“孝子原型”，在中国的母亲颂歌中具有相当的典型性。
《Mother’s Hands》是美国诗人W. Dayton Wedgefarth称颂母亲的诗歌。
两首诗都以子女的角度赞扬了母亲的伟大，表露出了母爱是至高无上的思想情感。
但是，这两首从不同地域、文化孕育出的诗歌，也让我们看到了中西诗歌的不同之处。
一、内容形式上的比较：首先，两首诗均是以赞美母爱为题材，但在内容角度上的选择不同。
《游子吟》从一个慈母缝衣的普通场景出发，“密密缝”表现了母亲的动作，“意恐”表达了母亲的内心感受，从“衣”和“线”的关系中，表现了“母”与“子”不可分割的关系，更融进了“母”对“子”的深情。
“临行密密缝，意恐迟迟归”将母亲的动作与心理结合起来，描写了母亲对即将远行的孩子的担忧，为全诗增加了更为真挚的感情。
最后两句，诗人用反问的手法，含蓄地表达出一个孝子内心的感受,儿女们如小草受到如春天阳光般的母爱的滋养和哺育，这种恩情是无以报答的。
通过作者的文字，我们眼前就能浮现出那幅生动的画面。
《Mother’s Hands》则是建构了一幅温馨的画面：“Dear gentle hands have stroked my hair”母亲温柔的手抚摸我的头发。
作者在全诗中只写了母亲这一个动作，随后就直接表达出了自己的感受和赞美。
所以从风格上来说，《游子吟》在情感的表达上是委婉含蓄的，即通过母亲的动作描写和心理描写，让作者去揣测那份深情；而《Mother’s Hands》则是直率的表达出了浓烈的情感，让读者一看就能明白那种对母爱赞美的思想感情。
也就是说，《游子吟》通过写景而抒情，而后者则是注重描写景在人心里所唤起的反应，例如当母亲的手触碰到“我”时，“那些隐蔽了我的天空的稍纵即逝的情绪和犯错误的想法，在他们的代祷之下迅速融化流逝”。
我的妈妈MyMother中英作文
我的妈妈My Mother中英作文我的妈妈My Mother中英作文我的妈妈-My MotherMy mother is a nurse。
She loves her job and devotes herself to it。
Last month she went to Beijing to fight against SARS。
My mother didn't go back home until more than one month later。
But I missed her very much。
I knew she tried her best to protect us from SARS。
I love my mother and I feel proud of her。
我妈妈是一个护士。
她热爱她的`工作并献身于它。
上个月她去北京抗击非典，一个多月没回家。
我非常想念她，但我知道她在尽力保护我．们免受非典型，肺炎的侵害。
我爱我的妈妈，并为她自豪。
How lovely my mother is! My mother is a nurse。
In those dangerous days last month， she went to Beijing to fight against SARS。
She tried her best to protect us from SARS。
She had workedthere for more than one month。
I love my mother and feel proud of her。
我的妈妈多么可爱啊!我妈妈是一个护士，在上个月那些危险的日子里，她去北京抗击“非典”。
她尽力保护我们免受非典型肺炎的侵害，在那儿她一工作就是一个多月。
我爱妈妈，并为她自豪。
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My Mother’s Hands
This world has many wonders,
God’s many vistas grands;
But none can ever rival
The beauty of Mother’s hands.
Wilma Heffelfinger
A few years ago, when my mother was visiting, she asked me to go shopping with her because she needed a new dress. I don’t normally like to go shopping with other people, and I’m not a patient person, but we set off for the mall together nonetheless.
We visited nearly every store that carried ladies’ dresses, and my mother tried on dress after dress, rejecting them all. As the day wore on, I grew weary and my mother grew frustrated.
at our last stop, my mother tried on a lovely blue three-piece dress. The blouse had a bow at the neckline, and as I stood in the dressing room with her, I watched as she tried, with much difficulty, to tie the bow. Her hands were so badly crippled from arthritis that she couldn’t do it. Immediately, my impatience gave way to an overwhelming wave of compassion for her. I turned away to try and hide the tears that welled up involuntarily. Regaining my composure, I turned back to tie the bow for her. The dress was beautiful, and she bought it. Our shopping trip was over, but the event was etched indelibly in my memory.
For the rest of the day, my mind kept returning to that moment in the dressing room and to the vision of my mother’s hands trying to tie that bow. Those loving hands that had fed me, bathed me, dressed me, caressed and comforted me, and, most of all, prayed for me, were now touching me in a most remarkable manner.
Later in the evening, I went to my mother’s room, took a precious, priceless gift a loving, self-sacrificing mother is. I can only pray that some day my hands, and my heart, will have earned such a beauty of their own.
Bev Hulsizer。