My Mother's Hands

As I reflect on mom's physical absence, I am reminded of her hands.

It's prompted me to revisit this piece from a few years back. 

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Mom is almost 92. This past weekend she attended her grandson Nick’s wedding. A crisis ensued when she found herself unable to flush the toilet in the hotel room and found herself unable to tend to her normal ablution’s due to the low height of the commode.  It was also brought to my attention that her hands have become so frail that even writing checks is arduous. 

I wrote this in an effort to convey all those hands mean to me.

My mothers hands

My mothers hands on her Saint Basil hymnal caught the attention 

of the college boy who became her husband and my father.

Her hands brought him close and they created me.

Those hands held me, swaddled me, and swatted me, 

(a teaching tool of the era);

Those hands embraced 12 tiny infants as they entered the world 

conceived, carried and born from her flesh.

Those hands sterilized and filled baby bottles and 

canning jars for years.

Those hands wrung out countless soiled diapers in the creepy basement 

of the house where we lived growing up.

Those hands held our forehead when we puked into the toilet.

Her hands chose fabrics, pinned on pattern pieces, 

cut them and sewed them into clothing for her brood.

Her hands knit and embroidered sweaters for each of her daughters 

in secret one Christmas. There were six of us.

Those hands made Barbie doll clothes – – including wedding dresses.

Those hands played songs on the piano for us to sing along.

Those hands kneaded dough for cinnamon rolls 

and homemade noodles.

Those hands helped slaughter chickens to feed her chicks.

Those hands knit baby blankets for grandchildren 

and great grandchildren.

Those hands bid a mournful farewell to a beloved husband, 

two grown sons, a mother and a father, and beloved sisters.

Those hands have made over a thousand Almond Puffs. 

Yes, she’s counted!

They have held my hand, stroked my hair, raised up in hello, 

gathered me close for an embrace, waved goodbye.

Those hands have fingered more rosary beads then can be counted.

My daughter always commented on how soft her hands are.

The diminishment of aging is normal and inevitable. 

We come into this world without a choice--completely vulnerable--

completely at the mercy of the human hands around us. 

In many cases that is how we leave. 

However the tiny babe has no knowledge of what it’s like 

to be strong and useful and capable. 

Those with intact memory carry those memories and the grief 

that goes with the loss of them into the vulnerabilities of age.

Both periods of life call for a trust in our fellow human beings and 

whatever mystery we believe in to care for us, 

ideally with dignity, compassion, and love.

Those hands, my mother’s hands are the symbol 

of what love would look like if it had a form.

Here's another photo  of mom's hands posted by my sister, Reena.