My Mother's Hands

I have always admired my mother's hands.  The palm of her hand seemed unusually wide, given her petite frame; her fingers were long and slender with little creases on the underside; her nails beautifully shaped.  Whether she was crocheting, knitting, rolling out dough for cinnamon buns on the counter, or holding a cigarette elegantly between her fingers, there was strength and beauty in her hands.  When she talked - and she liked to talk - her hands were always in motion, telling stories in the air.

She began life as a left handed child.  That changed dramatically in her first year of school when the nuns insisted she use her right hand to hold her pencil.  In spite of that, her penmanship throughout her life was exquisite, her signature - large and loopy and written with a flourish.  In most things, she was ambidextrous, and could switch from left to right depending on the task at hand.

I don't remember mom ever having rough, chapped hands, but I'm sure she must have with all the manual labour that she did, especially in her younger years.  Her hands always felt soft to me.  When we were little, mom would keep my sister and I quietly occupied by handing us a jar of Noxzema and asking us to put lotion on her hands.  It was a soothing exercise for all of us, and I'm sure, a much needed rest for mom.  When I got older, I'd file her nails and apply nail polish too, a task I enjoyed doing until my teenage years when I'd protest, "aww mom, do I have to?" and of course, I always did.  As far back as I can remember, mom always had a nailfile close at hand.  She was fussy about her hands and whenever she had a quiet moment to herself, she'd pick up the file and shape her nails.

On the night of my father's funeral, our whole family stayed with mom in Sault Ste. Marie.  I don't recall where everyone slept that night, but it became necessary for me to share a bed with mom.  I remember feeling awkward about that.  I hadn't slept with mom since I was a child.  Sometime through the night, I woke up crying.  It was a surreal experience to feel mom's hand reach across the bed to comfort me.  There was an incredible infusion of love, an electrical charge that passed from her hand to mine in that brief touch that I've never forgotten.  Even in her grieving, she reached out to me and I felt her energy and love enfolding me - and I was comforted.

Many years passed and mom's hands became less busy.  Her fingers were very slender now, though still perfectly straight with no obvious signs of arthritis.  The pads on the tips of her fingers were thinning, the knuckles showing more prominently.  Every once in a while, when I visited her she would ask me to trim her nails.  Knowing how fiercely independent she was, I would happily sit in front of her chair, my head bent over her hand resting in mine and we'd chat away while I worked.  It was a familiar undertaking for both of us and one I know she enjoyed.

Mom's hands have been at rest for three years now.  I miss her more than I can ever say.  I close my eyes to help me remember the feel, the shape, the movement of her hands, the essence that was undeniably mom and upon opening my eyes glance down at my own hands - and find the same square palm, long fingers, wide nail beds and the little creases on the underside of my fingers - and I am comforted.