Part 5: Hands Together
Thursday, 10/22. I was still wearing a mask and surgical gloves with my cold entrenching itself in my lungs — raspy voice, coughing, body aches. Yet I could not keep myself from seeing Mom daily. It was frustrating to have the layer of plastic and germs between us. I wanted to feel her warmth and proof of life, so just for a moment, I took off my surgical glove, washed my hand with Purell, and grabbed a hold of Mom’s fragile hands. Stillness prevailed in the room as I watched our hands intertwined with one another.
And I though of these hands, for 44 years these hands that have…
Rubbed my back when I awoke from a nightmare.
Brushed my hair into a mini-bun for ballet.
Pushed hair out of my eyes when I awoke from surgery.
Applauded for me during piano recitals, basketball games, ballet performances.
Baked dozens and dozens of chocolate chip, oatmeal chip, or ginger cookies just because.
Ran hot baths for me on cold, damp days.
Dialed my number daily just to say “hi honey”.
Mailed handwritten notes, just to say she loves me.
Zipped, tucked and adjusted my wedding dress the hour before I walked down the aisle.
Toasted her favorite champagne or cranberry soda to our good health and family blessings.
Rocked my firstborn with the same love I imagine she rocked me.
Grabbed for me when needing extra support up and down stairs.
I used to dislike my hands — too many age spots, too wrinkly, super long fingers. Yet now I look with admiration. For the greatest thing my Mom’s hands did was taught me how to show love. My hands are reflective of her hands.