Wednesday, February 04, 2009
These are my mothers hands that held me and didn’t wipe away my childhood tears. My father did that job, and then I would blow my nose on his large white hanky.
My mothers hands instead; checked the stock market, and picked out winning horses for the next race.
It kept her busy.
My mothers hands grew vegetables, and snipped cuttings to grow in the garden.
My mothers hands were still and quiet at dad’s funeral, holding a simple handkerchief, which stayed dry for the whole service, but my mother’s hands became more agitated as time went by.
“The days are so long to fill” she would tell me down the phone, almost daily.
Her hands would tap on the arm chair as she watched the time tick-tock by, noting each click on the clock, measuring each minute melt into an hour, each hour merge into a day, each day murmur into a moment, each moment emerge as another memory.
My mother’s hands do crosswords now, the silver pen poised above 20 down and 5 across. They flutter above the black squares, hovering like a hawk, waiting for a word to come to mind.
Holding her place within the puzzle with her left little pinky; her opal wedding ring - now loose and spinning around her finger -peeks over an arthritic knuckle.
My mothers hands. I kiss them.