Those Hands

Wise Woman’s Hands - Photo by: TessAnka

I remember her hands in mine as she lay in the hospital bed, machines breathing for her, their beeping a rhythm I didn’t want to hear—yet I couldn’t stop listening for.

Those Hands.

Hands covered in paper-thin skin, warm and worn. I swear I could see and feel the blood moving through her veins, slightly raised along the backs of her hands like a kind of human braille only I could read. Thanks to the machines helping her heart send that blood where it needed to go, she was still there—eyes searching mine behind the plastic face mask covering her mouth and nose.

Those hands.

They held me as a child, helped me tie my shoes, pulled my hair into tight ponytails or cockeyed braids if there was time.

Those hands.

They also held thousands of cigarettes to red-lipsticked lips—the very habit that led her to where she was when she died. Suffering from severe emphysema, gasping for breath, eventually tethered to an oxygen tank she could never be without.

Those hands.

They made terrible dinners. She wasn’t a cook, and my sisters and I often joke that her plan worked—because as soon as we were tall enough to reach the knobs on the stove, we took over cooking many nights.

Those hands.

They longed to be creative. Her fingers gripped thick wooden paintbrushes, dabbing oil paint onto canvas as her teacher demonstrated in class. Months of weekly studio sessions—one of the few joys in her life—resulted in paintings of eerie woodlands, magnetic ocean cliffs, and skies full of seagulls. Each of us got one. Mine wasn’t my favorite at first, but after having it professionally cleaned twice to remove the nicotine smell and yellowed tinge, it now hangs proudly in my home.

Those hands.

How I wish they could have caressed my children and held the hands of the grandchildren she never got to meet. I used to wonder what kind of grandmother she would have been. I like to imagine her crawling on the floor to play, or spoiling them during overnight sleepovers.

Those hands.

The ones that sported “Saucy Scarlet” or “Fearless Flame” on carefully manicured nails, painted every week at our large kitchen table. The sharp, acrid scent of acetone and polish filled the air—a bold ritual of beauty in our home.

Those hands.

The ones that held our lives together as best they could. They kept us safe, fed, clothed, and even managed to squirrel away hidden cash for small luxuries—a trip to Higgie’s for foot-long hot dogs spilling over their shorter toasted buns, or root beer floats served in tall plastic cups with brightly striped long spoons.

Those hands.

Loving hands, I wish I could have cared for them the way they deserved to be cared for. Hands that once wrapped around me in hugs I can’t quite remember but sometimes try to imagine. A touch behind my back, pulling me in tight, grounding me.

Those hands.

If I could hold them again, I’d meet her eyes and whisper a heartfelt thank you for raising me into the woman I am today: mother, grandmother, sister, friend, wife. Thank you, Mom. Happy Mother’s Day.